


Headed for Disaster

by HotCrossPigeon



Series: Hurt!Aziraphale Stories [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Whump (Good Omens), Aziraphale's True Form (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bickering, Blood, Blood and Injury, Buried Alive, Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Claustrophobia, Crowley Angst (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Death, Drowning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Fluff and Humor, Hanging, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Isolation, Knife Wounds, Loneliness, M/M, Old Married Couple, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Strangulation, Touch-Starved, Whumptober 2020, Wings, Wounds, besotted husbands, intimidation tactics, not for the faint hearted
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:35:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26738953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HotCrossPigeon/pseuds/HotCrossPigeon
Summary: Whumptober 2020 prompts!A series of unrelated stories, featuring Aziraphale whump.Please heed the tags, things might get a bit dark in here.But also, a lot of sweet fluff snuck its way in ;)Chapter One: HangingChapter Two: In the hands of the enemyChapter Three: ManhandledChapter Four: Buried aliveChapter Five: ComfortChapter Six: Get it outChapter Seven: I’ve got you / carryingChapter Eight: IsolationChapter Nine: WaterChapter Ten: Blood lossChapter Eleven: CryingChapter Twelve: Broken BonesChapter Thirteen: Falling
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Hurt!Aziraphale Stories [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1497989
Comments: 489
Kudos: 501
Collections: Hurt Aziraphale





	1. Hanging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: hanging, strangulation, blood, wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... thought I’d take a stab at writing a prompt every day. We’ll see what happens :)
> 
> These may not be polished, edited, fully fleshed out, or finished stories! So please, don’t judge me too harshly. I only just decided to do this today, because I’m a total mess of a human bean.
> 
> On with the whump!

Crowley had always been able to feel Aziraphale, on some level. It was like a comforting buzz on the edge of his senses.

Whenever the angel was in danger, the buzz grew and became more of a shiver across his skin, until Crowley was absolutely bloody freezing, and the only way for him to feel warmth again was to find the angel and extract him from whatever idiotic harebrained scheme he’d managed to get himself into.

It was a bit like getting spiritual ice water upended over his head. It caused his pupils to contract, his tongue to fork, his spine to snap to attention. It was a shock.

And this time had been no different.

Except for the fact that he was _late_.

Crowley had been halfway across the globe - in the arse end of nowhere, doing some god awful job in some god awful get-up - when he felt a shudder of ice down his neck. It had taken him a while to wile his way out of the mission at hand, and then the whole teleporting far across the world thing had knocked him for six. By the time he stumbled out of the aether and back onto Earth, he was grumbling and nursing a headache.  
  


Blech. Where the Heaven was he, anyway? Crowley squinted at the sun. Eh, fuck knows. But it had been nighttime before. So, pretty bloody far away.

He elbowed aside the crowd that had gathered around a large wooden structure, tugging on a shirt that made him stick out like a sore thumb in these new surroundings. Oof, he was ready to give Aziraphale an earful.

_Oi, I was in the middle of something important, you know,_ he would grumble, petulantly, once he found Aziraphale. _You’re lucky I stepped out for a breather and saw you -_

But then he did, actually, _see_ _him_.

All thoughts of a smug rescue flew out of his head.

It - it didn’t even look like him, at first. Crowley was about to avert his eyes from the poor bugger, thinking about how Aziraphale would be upset to have seen such a thing. The angel never did well when the humans thought up such horrible ways to hurt themselves. Aziraphale would probably need consoling, maybe that’s what the shock had been, just an abundance of angelic grief - but then - Crowley noticed the hair -

\- it was the hair, the white fluffy hair that caught the sunshine - it was -

Oh no - oh _God_ \- _Aziraphale!_

He panicked, and time stopped around him without him even realising what he’d done. The faces of the crowd shuttered to a stop, their mouths open to yell, to jeer - Crowley shoved them aside and _ran_.

  
To the little semicircle around the wooden structure, which he now recognised as a gallows.

He cut Aziraphale down.

He was underneath the scaffolding when the angel fell, beneath the scuffed swinging boots, ready to catch him - but in the end they had both toppled to the ground.

Crowley clutched at the dusty coat, rolling them both over. The angel was ice cold to the touch, a heavy, dead weight, with heavy, dead limbs. _Please,_ thought Crowley, _please, please._ The demon hurriedly got to his knees and stared into that pale face that he knew so well.  
  
  


Aziraphale’s eyes were wide and wet, and the whites were shot through with veins of red that made the grey of his irises stand out sharply. His lips were blue.

“Oh shitshit _shit_ \- Aziraphale?” He touched the angel’s cheek, his head casting the still form in shadow as he leaned over. Had he been too late? “ _Aziraphale_ , hey. _Hey!_ ”

The angel blinked. Just once. A trembling flutter of damp, clumped eyelashes.

He was still here - not discorporated.

Oh, thank fuck. They had to get out of here.

The rope had been pulled taught against that soft neck, cutting into the flesh. Crowley loosened it, quickly, desperately, and tugged the noose up and over the curved nose, those white curls. The angel’s hands had been bound, too, at the back. Knotted.

Crowley just needed to get it all off him - all of the restraints, everything, as soon as fucking possible.

A sharp stab of pain through his skull reminded him that they were still outside of time, and his power was draining fast. Crowley snapped his fingers. Time resumed. Any onlookers would see whatever they wanted to see, the _leeches_ , and that was about as much thought as he could put into it at that moment. He had eyes only for the angel in his arms.  
  
  


Crowley was absolutely _terrified_.

The first gurgling breath in had been the worst. A horrid, wet, sucking sound, that Aziraphale would never have made had he been in his right mind. And if he ever had, he would utter an _oh goodness, I’m terribly sorry, pardon me,_ and whip out a lacy handkerchief to cover his shame.

Now. He didn’t do anything but gasp, wetly.

Crowley hefted the angel up.

He carried him to a tavern nearby - well, it was a more of a dragging affair, with his hands under Aziraphale’s armpits - he stole a room, laid the angel on the bed, locked the door.

He knew, logically, that he must have done all of these things, but he could remember none of them.

All he could think of was a cold nose pressed against skin, the sound of those strained wet breaths, the whimper as the angel been laid down on the quilt, carefully, delicately.

The way he’d looked up at Crowley with palpable relief. “Cr...”

“Don’t talk, _don’t talk -_ just - _shit_ \- _bollocks_ \- I’ll fix you right up, angel. It’s going to be fine.”

Aziraphale fell quiet, and he looked so unguarded and trusting. The light glittered in his eyes.

Crowley searched the drawers for - well, _any bloody thing_. He’d found some cloths, a pressed cold cream in a little pot, a basin to fill with water. All of it was bollocks, really, but he needed something to do with his hands. Needed to soothe the angel with whatever he could find.

Aziraphale usually relaxed when things were orderly and controlled, he was soothed under careful ministrations. Just like one of his books, he needed to be handled with care. It did him good, it calmed him. Crowley could do that for him, if nothing else. He could pretend he knew what the fuck he was doing.

He didn’t dare heal Aziraphale directly - angel, demon - something bad was bound to happen, and the last thing he wanted right now was to cause Aziraphale any further pain. So, he’d infused the pot of cream he had found with a healthy dose of magic instead, and hoped it would do the trick.

The angel would heal eventually. He knew that. Corporations were resilient things. But if Crowley could speed it up in any way, he would do so in a heartbeat.

Anything to get Aziraphale to stop looking like _that_.

He peeled back the shirt collar from the angel’s wound. It stuck, and there were spots of drying red and brown on the fabric.

Aziraphale jerked away at the first gentle touch of Crowley’s slender finger.

Crowley jerked back himself, partially in surprise, but mostly because the thought of the angel shying away from him stung in a way he couldn’t fully articulate. It made his insides go all cold and wriggly, and all of his instincts yelled at him to _stop_.

_Stop hurting him._

“Shit. Does it hurt?” Crowley asked, and that earned him a baleful glare which did wonders to alleviate some of the worry.

Because _look_ \- there Aziraphale was. There was his angel. Still capable of scoffing at him. Thank _fuck_. He’d been shit scared for a moment there.

“All right, yes, stupid question, sorry. _Sorry_. I’m trying to be gentle, angel. But it’s a bit of a mess, if’m honest.”  
  
  


Aziraphale relaxed a little against the pillows, with a small pout. “It’s not... you,” he assured, breathlessly.

His vocal chords had taken the brunt of the force, and he sounded _wrong -_ the timbre of his melodious voice had turned dry and brittle and hoarse. Crowley _hated_ it.

“It’s...” The angel’s fingers went up to gingerly touch at his neck.

_Right. Yeah. Having a big length of rope around your neck tends to make one a bit flighty,_ thought Crowley, _got it._

  
  
“This okay?” he asked, touching ever so gently, but with renewed purpose. The sooner they got this bit over with, the sooner the angel could rest.

Aziraphale nodded, and then grimaced anyway. Crowley could feel every tiny wince and flinch of pain as if it were his own. But the angel was present, his glassy-eyed stare had grown bright and pained. Didn’t know if that was an improvement, but at this point, he’d take anything.

“You _idiot_ ,” growled Crowley, and though his words were angry, his touch was impossibly careful as he smoothed the makeshift ointment into the angel’s poor skin, along the soft hang of his jaw. Around the nape of his neck, where the angelic curls tapered. “What the _heaven_ were you _thinking_.”

Aziraphale wheezed, “It was... necessary... dear boy.”

“ _Necessary?!_ ” Crowley hissed, “Don’t give me that bollocks! Why didn’t you just use a miracle for Christ’s sake? There was no fucking need for you to be strung up like a -” he swallowed, and suddenly it was a bit too much. He clenched his teeth and eyes shut, as tight as he could.

Having to see him dangling like that.

Crowley could see it everywhere he looked. Could see those legs twitch with involuntary muscle spasms, see that familiar face contorted with -

There was the soft touch of cold fingers over his own. He looked down to see the tangle of their shaking hands.

He’d dropped the pot of cream and it had rolled off somewhere.

“It’s all right. Oh, _Crowley_. I’m all right,” said Aziraphale, looking worried. Which was stupid. Because Crowley was the one who should be worried. And Aziraphale didn’t look _all right,_ the lying liar.The way the angel was breathing now was much too obvious, calculated, as if he savoured every breath. It obviously caused him pain - it was there in that wince that he couldn’t quite mask in time, it was there in the creases around his eyes, on the damp sheen of sweat on his lip.

But the angel continued to breathe anyway, probably to assure himself that he still could.

Crowley turned his attention to the angel’s neck with some trepidation. A long ring of dark purpling bruises, a thin red welt where the skin had peeled from the burn of the rope. It was weeping in places. It looked fucking horrible, standing out starkly on Aziraphale’s pale skin.

If he’d been human, he might’ve snapped his neck. That was what sometimes happened with a long drop and sudden stop. Crowley had seen it before. Nasty business, but better than... better than being strangled, slowly. And though Aziraphale didn’t need to breathe, Crowley knew for a fact that the angel had become used to the human way of doing things. And he’d been hanging there - he’d been -

It didn’t discorporate him, that was the only good thing about this whole nightmarish shitshow.

Aziraphale wasn’t looking at him, he seemed somewhere else. “It was my fault that... _poor_ man... was in that mess - someone had to... take his place - and I was strictly prohibited... from any miracle use.”

Crowley shook his head. He didn’t understand, but he wasn’t about to ask about it, not when the angel sounded like he’d swallowed a mouthful of broken glass. “You stupid - _stupid_.”

“I’d do it... again,” said Aziraphale, with some of his usual pigheadedness.

Crowley wiped at his eyes, fingers shaking. “I know you would, you self-sacrificing prick.”

“Crowley -”

“ _Stop talking_ ,” said Crowley, and he meant it to sound harsh, but it came out almost pleading. “You sound awful. Look, you don’t need to explain yourself to me, all right? I’m just fucking angry, that’s all.”

Aziraphale had nothing to say to that. But he was starting to look a little better. There was colour in his cheeks now, and his lips were pinker than they had been before. His eyes were still bloodshot though, a mess of burst capillaries.

“What if I hadn’t been there,” Crowley wondered, unaware he’d said so out loud, until Aziraphale offered up a watery smile.

“Then my plan,” whispered the angel, “would have continued... unhindered by... wily... meddling... serpents.”

“Oh, you’re fucking welcome I popped by then,” groused the demon. “See me saving your life again, you ungrateful bastard.”

Aziraphale just looked at him. Who knew what the angel saw? The way he looked at Crowley sometimes... it was - it was like he saw something to be treasured. Held close. Adored, maybe.

He shouldn’t look at Crowley like that.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispered, as if it were a secret. As if he meant to say something else.

“ _Don’t_ ,” snapped Crowley. _Jesus Christ._ He shouldn’t be thanked, he should have come sooner, should’ve prevented this whole bloody thing from happening.

“I was never... in any real danger,” said Aziraphale, as if reading his thoughts, but his eyes were wet and still he breathed, deeply and painfully. Crowley looked at him and said nothing. He scooped up the pot of cream from its hiding place and went back to soothing the angel’s neck.

Aziraphale calmed under the touch, eyelids fluttering closed.

“You _idiot_ ,” he said, and his hand moved up to cup at the angel’s jaw, fingers still oily with cream. He left wet smudges on Aziraphale’s cheek.

He leant forward to rest his forehead against the slightly damp brow.

Aziraphale let him.

They breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you tomorrow :)
> 
> If you fancy a chat, find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hotcrosspigeon)


	2. In the hands of the enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why are you all SO LOVELY. Thank you. 
> 
> I was going to do the whole ‘oh no, demons have captured Aziraphale’ thing, but then I thought, well... technically, Crowley is the enemy. So, I offer you some emotional whump instead.
> 
> This one is definitely not edited, so. Be gentle :)

Aziraphale eyed the Quartermaster’s, frankly quite _ridiculous,_ beard with some envy.

His own corporation had never been authorised to have any facial hair, beyond the sideburns a century or two ago, and he had _ideas_. He had filed several requests, but so far none had been granted. Regulations, or some such nonsense. Oh, what Aziraphale could do with a beard like that.

“Principality Aziraphale. Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”  
  


  
Aziraphale was startled out of his musings. “Ah, yes, hello. That’s me.”

“It’s not required that you answer,” said the Quartermaster dryly, flicking through his clipboard without looking up.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, who had been subject to a few of these inspections before, and somehow still hadn’t learned not to engage in small talk. He got a little nervous, you see. His smile was bordering on hysterical, his hands were behind his back, fingers trembling out of sight. He was terribly, frightfully, on edge.

“One corporation issued. Hmm.” The angel scrutinised Aziraphale as if he were a flimsy holiday novella with a few pages missing and lewd notes scribbled in the margin. Pristine shoes clicked as he walked behind Aziraphale and out of view.

Aziraphale did his best to keep his spine perfectly straight and his heels together. He swallowed, and it sounded so loud and human and utterly inappropriate. He could feel the prickle of the other angel’s gaze on the nape of his neck.

“Not taken very good care of it, have you?” muttered the Quartermaster, noting something down on his impossibly white clipboard.

“I‘m sorry?” Aziraphale prided himself on how he’d cultivated his appearance over the years. He was always meticulously clean, manicured, coifed. He took very good care of himself, thank you very much.

“It’s gone soft.” The Quartermaster gestured with his gold pen, lips pulled down in disgust, “especially in the middle.”

Aziraphale put a careful hand over his waistcoat. “It’s over six thousand years old, and in that time, has suffered not one discorporation,” he defended, with a sniff. “Not _one!_ It’s served me exceedingly well. And, as I’ve explained in my reports, I’ve found that the humans react better to a more comfortable form -”

“Points deducted,” said the Quartermaster, his eyes blue and cold, “for _talking back._ ”

Oh dear. “Oh no, no, you see, I was merely -”

“ _Eyes_ _front_ , soldier.”

“Ah, yes. Of course. Ever so sorry.”

And of course when he said _eyes front,_ the Quartermaster meant _all of them_. Aziraphale hadn’t used all of his eyes at once for - oh, centuries, maybe. Perhaps the last time had been at the previous inspection.

One couldn’t have all their eyes open on Earth, you see, oh Heavens no, it was much too overwhelming. There was a constant barrage of stimulation when one was among the humans. They were so wonderfully vivid and bright and noisy. Aziraphale opened his eyes now though, on the celestial plane, and was almost blinded by the harsh white of Heaven.

It took everything Aziraphale had to keep them open.

However, he rather suspected he was doing the celestial equivalent of squinting one’s eyes against the bright sun and appealing to Crowley to please purchase him one of those delightfully floppy sun hats.

“You’ll have to prepare for active duty, a soft corporation’s indicative of a _soft angel_ ,” said the Quartermaster, who obviously thought himself extremely knowledgeable on the subject. “Wings out, about face.”

_Well, really,_ thought Aziraphale, _a little courtesy wouldn’t go amiss._

He dutifully popped his wings into existence, and resigned to being put on display like a - a specimen in a museum, or, no - a specimen in a _laboratory_ would be more accurate.

He resigned himself to being catalogued, every small detail noted down, every discrepancy and failing.

_Clinical_ \- yes, that was the word.

The touch of the other angel’s hands had a calculated purpose behind them. _Straighten up,_ a hand on his spine. _Stretch those wings,_ a firm tug at his primaries. The hands of Heaven were hands that poked and prodded with detachment. They took and took. He felt worn down by the end, empty.

He shivered.

And, of course, the other angel’s hands were ice cold. 

They had no need for such human concepts as warmth in Heaven - it was a waste, an indulgence that couldn’t be justified. A good, upstanding, loyal angel shouldn’t find comfort in the idea of warmth. It was nothing but a change in temperature.

Other angels didn’t tend to understand these things, nor find joy in them, as Aziraphale did. He had tried to explain on a few occasions, that often the things that the humans enjoyed - like warmth, and food, and humour - were really quite lovely once you got the hang of them. He was then asked if his ramblings had any bearing on, or were relevant in any way, to the Great Plan.

Aziraphale soon grew quiet after that.   


He was handed his failings in a neat little white booklet with golden trim.

The Quartermaster had been cold and indifferent in his observations. There were quite a few aspects about Aziraphale that were, ah, _found wanting._ The Principality had expected that might be the case, but he hadn’t been prepared for there to be quite so many of them. Or for them to be rendered in such stark detail.  


Enclosed was an ominous list of _improvements_ , and oh - Aziraphale had to put a hand over his mouth when he read through them.  


He hadn’t known... he’d _suspected,_ certainly, but... oh dear, oh dear.

The only upside was that he wasn’t allowed to keep the booklet itself once he had read it, for it was destined to be stored with his personal file along with the previous Inspection Reports - which was a relief only in that Aziraphale would not be able to pore over it endlessly at night. Though, he suspected he had memorised it already.

_Rather hard to forget,_ he thought. 

The Quartermaster informed him in an annoyed drawl, that someone would be in touch to arrange _sessions_ whereby he would be given the _opportunity_ to improve upon his _mediocrity_.   


Aziraphale spent the journey back to Earth clutching his hands together and despairing.  


By the time he made it to the bookshop, he’d wound himself into a miserable knot. One of his waistcoat buttons had come loose and dangled on a precarious thread.

Oh.

The Bentley was parked outside.

He breathed out, impossibly relieved at the sight. Oh, thank _goodness_.

_Crowley.  
_

Aziraphale pressed a hand against the wood of the bookshop door, and the bell tinkled above.

The angel removed his outer coat and gently hung it on the rack. “Let yourself in, did you?” he called into the shop proper, selecting his grey housecoat and putting it on. If his voice wobbled a little in the middle, he daren’t think too much about it. “I don’t mind telling you, that was awfully presumptuous!”

Crowley came into view, grinning. Aziraphale had offered him the hospitality of the bookshop on many occasions, but the demon had never actually come in without the angel present until now. Had he known...? No, no, surely not. It was just a happy coincidence.

“Eh, I thought, if you _really_ wanted to keep me out, the doors wouldn’t have opened.” Crowley jerked a thumb at the entryway. “But the old girl let me in, and here we are.”

Aziraphale’s heart reached eagerly for him but his hands remained at his sides. They moved up to worry at the hem of his waistcoat.

He shouldn’t want these things.

Aziraphale ducked his head, “You know very well that the bookshop often has a mind of its own. If it let you in, it certainly has nothing to do with me. Obviously, the poor dear has been _corrupted_ by your presence.”

Crowley had the decency to look a little bashful, he rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh. Right. Er. Want me to bugger off, then?”

No. Oh, no. He didn’t want that at all. Aziraphale offered up a dimpled smile, a little watery about the edges, because he knew that Crowley would indeed leave if he asked him to. And that might seem like a small thing to anyone else, but to Aziraphale, who rarely had his wishes respected, it meant everything.

“You might as well stay,” he said softly, “now that you’ve already gone to the trouble of breaking and entering.”

Crowley rocked back on his heels slightly, looking smug.

Aziraphale looked him up and down, with an eyebrow raised delicately. But he was so very glad of the company. He had no idea what might happen if he were to spend the day alone. Best not to think on it.

Oh, gracious. He felt wrung out, all the colour washed out of him. The bookshop was full of richness, golds and dark woods and deep burgundies and emerald greens and navy blues. He touched at the covers of the books to his right with a reverent hand. The gold filigree indentations, the texture of the leather. And the smell, _oh_. The smell was wonderful.

He closed his eyes and breathed in.

“You all right, angel?”

He opened his eyes to see Crowley doing his usual lean. Honestly, he had no idea how the demon manage to stay on his feet at such an improbable angle, no doubt bending a few laws of physics for the sake of his swagger. “Yes, yes,” he said, distractedly, “perfectly.”

Crowley nodded. “Been, er, _upstairs_ , have you?”

How did he always know? Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “Never you mind.” He brought out the finger, and waggled it.

Crowley huffed a laugh. “Got just the thing to deal with the heavenly blues.” He reached behind his back, and brought out a bottle of aged whisky.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tutted, “it’s barely _noon_.”

But he didn’t object any further, especially not when those warm hands pressed a generous glassful into his palm.

“Time is but a construct,” said Crowley, “and all that tosh. Anyway. Look like you had a rough day.”

“No, no. Just. An inspection.”

Crowley didn’t look surprised, but he raised his eyebrows comically. “Oof,” he grimaced, waggling the bottle and making the liquid within slosh about. “Should’ve bought the cheap plonk. You and me, angel. We’re going to get stupendously _wankered_.”

Crowley had laid out a spread on the coffee table. “Just some nibbles,” he said with a nonchalant slope of his shoulders. But there were things there that were very hard to come by, little morsels that were carefully chosen, just for Aziraphale.

“Oh, Crowley,” he said, breathlessly. “This looks _scrumptious_. You really shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble - oh! Are those stuffed olives?”

“If it makes you feel any better it’s all stolen. Fell off the back of a lorry. Just. Siddown.” He passed the angel a plate. His thumb was on the edge, Aziraphale touched at it with his forefinger.

Oh.

Crowley’s hands were always warm. Whenever their fingers brushed, Aziraphale always noticed.

_How warm you are my dear,_ he would think, as if it were a secret between them.

And - and Crowley’s hands were so much _gentler_ than anyone in a Heaven’s too. It was blasphemous to think it, but he thought so nonetheless. He truly was an awful angel to prefer the company of a demon to his own kind. But then, it was Crowley.   
  
  


Kind, honest Crowley. Who never asked too much. Never prodded. Only ever really did so, in order to see what the angel was truly thinking beneath the layers he wore as carefully as he did his clothes.

Crowley’s hands only gave. Look, there he went again, a box in his hand for Aziraphale. Sweet tempting pastries from the bakery he frequented, tickets to a new play opened at the Barbican, glasses upon glasses of expensive whisky.

Aziraphale took them all eagerly, filling himself back up. He would spill over at this rate.

Still, it couldn’t do much harm now. The Inspection had already been carried out, and the disastrous results noted down, and Aziraphale was very, very tired, and hungry.

They did indeed get monumentally plastered. Crowley ended up snoring something dreadful, with his face pressed into the side of Aziraphale’s shoulder, and his hands - one was resting under his chin, fingers against Aziraphale’s coat, and the other was on the sofa, the side of his palm resting against Aziraphale’s trouser leg.

There was nothing expectant in that touch, it was loose, curled. There was no reason in it, either. Crowley had no reason to be touching him, other than the fact that perhaps he wanted to. Perhaps he delighted in the casual intimacy of it, just as Aziraphale did.

Lately, he found that he would much rather be in Crowley’s hands than anyone else’s.

He was the enemy, of course - a - a _wily_ adversary. But he had been an enemy for six thousand years, which made him the closest thing Aziraphale had to a friend.

Dear dear, he’d had too much to drink. Yes. Ought to sober up.

These silly old thoughts of his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until tomorrow <3


	3. Manhandled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Manhandled
> 
> Enter Sandalphon.

Aziraphale had an armful of books when his superiors appeared in the bookshop unannounced.

He did his best not to drop them. “Oh, Gabriel! What a - a pleasant surprise.”

“Aziraphale,” acknowledged the Archangel with a tight smile and a nod of his head. He swept an arm out to the side, where a squat angel stood with hungry eyes. “You remember Sandalphon?”

Oh.

Oh, _no_.

“Of course, ah, how do you do,” greeted Aziraphale, politely.

Sandalphon sneered. It might have been a smile, Aziraphale wasn’t sure, he’d never seen the other angel attempt any other expression. The gold in his mouth flashed as it caught the light. _Awfully showy,_ thought Aziraphale with a small sniff.

“Let me help you to your desk,” said Sandalphon. Aziraphale took a small step backwards.

Sandalphon always grabbed when he could, always tight at the elbow, digging in to the softness of Aziraphale’s corporation as a bird of prey might sink its talons into an terrified rabbit. He was a very tactile fellow. The other angels often avoided touching at all costs, but Sandalphon seemed to enjoy it.

Aziraphale couldn’t say that he particularly cared for it, himself.

“I’m perfectly capable of walking by myself, thank you,” Aziraphale said, curtly. But he offered what he hoped was a welcoming smile. “Let me just find a suitable resting place for these books, and I’ll be right with you.”

Sandalphon never listened. He came close, and there was that awful smell of - well, it was like something scrubbed so clean that there was nothing left at all - a bleached, unsettling smell. Perhaps an _absence_ of it - yes, that was it. Sandalphon didn’t have a scent, he had an absence of one. A black hole where once there had been the smell of old pages, or fresh air from the cracked window, or the toast he’d eaten this morning smeared with jam.

“Just giving a helping hand, where it’s needed,” insisted Sandalphon, “I’d hate for you to get lost.”

What an absolutely _preposterous_ idea. It was barely a few steps.

Oh dear, Aziraphale had thought that last meeting had gone too well. He should have suspected something like this might happen, but he’d let his guard down. The next thing he knew, he was being manhandled into his desk chair.

Oh _wonderful_. That was just what he needed, to be sat, trapped behind his desk, while Gabriel and Sandalphon leered down at him. He averted his eyes, and carefully placed the books he had been holding on the side of his desk to be dealt with at a later date. When he didn’t have _company_.

Gabriel inclined his head at Sandalphon. Sandalphon whipped a sheaf of pristinely white papers out of the air with a flourish. He set them in front of Aziraphale on the worn wooden desk, sweeping aside a few notes and his (thankfully closed) bottle of ink and accompanying pen, which clattered to the floor so loudly that Aziraphale startled.

The other two angels paid it no mind.

“The paperwork just needs your signature,” Gabriel said, “a formality. I’ve already authorised it.”

Aziraphale reached for his spectacles, perching them delicately upon the bridge of his nose. “Very good,” he said, lightly, a curl of unease in his gut. He had no idea what this paperwork could be referring to. There had been no mention of anything when last they’d met. “I’ll, ah, just give this a quick read through, shall I?”

Gabriel looked at him with a mixture of confusion and disgust. “What are those?” He gestured to Aziraphale’s face.

“Hmm?” Aziraphale blinked, “Oh! Of course, silly me. These are what the humans call ‘glasses’. They er, help me to fit in around the locals. It’s rather a force of habit, wearing them, I suppose. Obviously, I don’t _actually_ need them, but it is good to keep up appearances.”

“Right...”

Gabriel and Sandalphon shared a knowing look.

“Humans use them for reading,” explained Aziraphale, with a smile and a little twist of his wrist, fingers spreading to indicate the papers. “They really are rather clever beings. Very inventive.”

Gabriel smiled, condescendingly. “Well. There’s no need to read, Aziraphale.”

“No need to read!” spouted Sandalphon, “that’s an excellent rhyme, sir.”

Gabriel grinned widely, “Hey! How about that, it’s catchy, isn’t it? No _need._ To _read._ ”

Aziraphale, who felt there was _always_ a need to read, did his best not to look completely scandalised.

“Ah,” his smile was small and tremulous in comparison to the other two angels, who looked as though they were attempting to outdo one another in how any teeth they could show without cracking their jaws. “Yes. Yes, that’s... very clever. You’re quite the poet, Gabriel.”

“Thank you. And there really is _no need to read_ , Sunshine. Everything’s in order, I wrote it myself. Well, dictated to the underlings, but the point still stands.”

“Still,” said Aziraphale, touching the paper’s edge, ready to turn it, “one does like to be thorough with these things.”

Sandalphon stopped him with a ring of thick fingers around his wrist.

Aziraphale could feel the small bones creak under the strain, had he been human they might have snapped under the pressure.

“Here,” said the other angel, with far too many glinting teeth. He snapped a ballpoint into existence with his other hand, “take my pen.”

Aziraphale swallowed and nodded. “Most kind,” he said.

Sandalphon didn’t know his own strength, yes, that must be it. Corporations were finicky things to get a handle on, particularly for angels who spent most of their time in heaven. That said, Sandalphon’s tight grip was sure to leave a bruise, but that - that was no matter, it couldn’t have been on purpose. He was an _angel_. It was just an accident.

Gabriel looked away pointedly, turning around to glance disinterestedly at the bookshelves.

Sandalphon hovered.

Aziraphale signed his true name under that unblinking stare, it flared in whorls of bright shimmering gold and then dried to a dull sheen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, really appreciate it :D
> 
> If you fancy a chat, find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hotcrosspigeon)


	4. Buried Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Buried Alive
> 
> tw: human death, claustrophobia

There was earth in Aziraphale’s nose.

That was the very first thing he noticed. He was yet to open his eyes, and upon doing so would also notice that it was awfully, horribly _dark_ too.

But the earth - it was all encompassing - it was - it was _clogged_ \- in his airways, and he couldn’t _breathe_.

It took him an embarrassing amount of time to work out what must have happened. It was entirely possible that he might have been panicking, just a little bit. 

It wasn’t the humans’ fault. He couldn’t blame the poor creatures. It wasn’t as if they knew he was an angel, after all. Aziraphale had blended in with them _seamlessly_.

Well. All right, perhaps they thought him a little odd, but presumably they had thought he was still human. Or else this whole debacle wouldn’t have happened.

You see, he’d been unceremoniously knocked unconscious, and he must not have been breathing, or perhaps his heart hadn’t been beating, so - of course the humans would have thought - of _course_ they would have -

He tried not to think too much about it, as it was clear that he was becoming upset. And that wouldn’t do. Not if he wanted to get out of this mess. Ought to put the old thinking cap on, there’s a good chap. 

_Just breathe,_ as they say. Or, oh no, actually _don’t_ breathe - not just yet, anyway. It might be a frightfully unpleasant experience.

Right. First things first.

Aziraphale performed a small miracle to widen the space around him - though it hurt his head something fierce to do so - and then he was able to move, just a little, which did wonders for his state of mind.

Aha, yes. Wonderful. Oh. That was _much_ improved, wasn’t it? Not quite so, ah, _cosy_. Now he could move his arms like so and rid his nasal passages of that beastly dirt - oh, what he wouldn’t do for his pocket handkerchief! But it was missing - his coat was gone, taken probably, leaving nothing but a damp and muddied undershirt.

What an absolute _tragedy_. He had adored the gold buttons. Oh, and the sleeves - the lining had been so delightfully soft. And there had been some lovely dried apricots in the pocket, wrapped carefully in cloth.

Aziraphale lamented the loss for a moment or two and then shook himself - metaphorically, of course. There wasn’t much room in here to do much physically. Oh, honestly. He was being ridiculous. And silly. It was for the best that some human had it in their possession, as he would be utterly beside himself if it had been saturated with all of this awful mud.

Now, that was quite enough of that. He had no time to wallow in self pity.

He blinked the dirt and, well, who _knows_ what, from his eyelashes, and took one awful, shuddering breath in, which he immediately regretted.

Aziraphale wouldn’t go into it, but suffice to say, he felt a certain kinship to the earthworm in that moment.

After a while, he was able to produce a little light. Just a soft, heavenly glow. He took in his surroundings with bleary, watery eyes.

To his right, the light flickered over a hand with its fingers curled inwards, dirt under the broken fingernails.

Aziraphale turned his head away, with an “ _Oh!_ ” of distress.

There was a partially submerged ear to his left, and a clump of matted hair next to it, which altogether, wasn’t very pleasant to look at either.

“Dear me,” he murmured, forlornly. And put a hand to his mouth.

Oh, the poor humans. He hoped at least it had been quick and painless for them. He’d do a blessing if he weren’t feeling so wobbly, though it might not do any good, as their souls had clearly already departed from this world.

He whispered a prayer for them. Just in case.

All right. So, Aziraphale had established that he was most likely currently inhabiting some sort of mass grave. Shallow enough that the weight of the earth above him hadn’t crushed his corporation. Perhaps the humans were thinking of adding to it later.

Oh. What a _ghastly_ thought.

Well. He was sure that the situation could be worse, but he wasn’t exactly sure _how_ at this moment in time.

He breathed shallowly in the pocket of air he’d managed to create. The smell of mud was layered with other awful smells now, disturbed by the miracle he’d used. Death and decay and wriggling, squirming, things that dwelled in the dark.

The earth had compacted around his bare feet. Oh. Someone had taken his shoes as well. He supposed the leather was hard to come by, so - so he really, truly, couldn’t blame whoever it was for the theft.

Even if, he could admit in the quietude of his mind, he was thoroughly miffed about it.

Aziraphale breathed in the enclosed space, and the air became warm and damp, and the light began to flicker until the muddy walls were full of odd dancing shadows.

He needed to get out.

He needed to get out of here - he needed to _get out_ -

No. No. Don’t panic. He was all right. He just wished he hadn’t been knocked silly beforehand, it was rather hard to think, let alone perform a miracle.

Oh, how did he always manage to get himself into these awful situations...?

There was nothing else for it, he would simply have to _dig_ himself out.

He scooped at the earth with his hands. One could only imagine the state of his fingernails after this. It was hard going, but Aziraphale was strong. His arms heaved through the loose earth with a supernatural strength, muscles pulled taught and feet grappling for purchase on the soil.

And then, at last -

His fingers felt the first cool touch of the night air. Mud and dirt and grass roots rained down on him as he tugged himself free of the Earth that had held him captive.

Aziraphale gulped down great heaving breaths of fresh, dewy air that he didn’t need - but oh - _oh_ \- he so sorely had _missed_.

He wiped his face, smearing the mud there, and looked around. 

Aziraphale didn’t recognise this place. The moonlight could only show so much - a field of upturned earth, trees, a small building. 

There was a figure leaning on a spade by the fence. Oh, thank _goodness_. Perhaps he could ask them for help. He had absolutely no idea where he was. And it seemed to be the middle of the night. And he found himself completely discombobulated.

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale called out to the - now that he’d got a good look at him - _terrified_ looking man, “Hullo! Yes, ever so sorry to bother you, but I don’t suppose you’d be so kind as to point me in the direction of town?”

The man ran off screaming.

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have done that.

He wrung his hands a little and then wobbled to his feet. He dearly hoped that small building had a bath he could use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you on the morrow <3


	5. Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I tried to do the listed prompt for today but it turned out absolutely terrible. Oh well. Thank goodness for the alternative prompt options :)
> 
> Alternative Prompt: Comfort

“I could sleep for a week,” Crowley groaned, his spindly legs dangling over the arm of the chair he was currently sprawled in, his back stretching like a contented cat. “Scratch that, a few months. Maybe a year.”

Aziraphale looked up from his book. “Oh?”

“Yeah, might turn in after this, we deserve it.”

“So soon?” asked Aziraphale, quietly. Crowley looked at him, though there was nothing in the angel’s face to indicate panic, there was an odd tone to his voice. Something delicate.

“Yeah. Is that... all right? I mean,” he flapped a hand, “you’re welcome to, er, -” _not join me, don’t say join me, you idiot_ “- try it out for yourself. Heaven and Hell’ll leave us alone for a bit now, there’s no reason we can’t relax.”

“Oh, no, no. You go ahead. Enjoy yourself. I’ll ah, well, there’s certainly a lot to do around the bookshop, organising and cataloguing the new additions and such like. Besides, my dear, you know I don’t partake.”

“But you could,” tempted the demon, “now that no one’s watching.”

Aziraphale took a sip of wine and looked away.

“It’s actually pretty great, once you get the hang of it. I could... show you, if you like?”

The angel’s grey eyes flicked back, soft and curious and a little sad. He lowered the wine glass, licking at his top lip to catch a stray droplet. “That’s very kind of you, but I’ve no desire to try out the sins of the sloth, thank you.”

“Not even a little bit? Not even a snooze? A nap? A teeny tiny kip?”

Usually, this would earn Crowley a scoff, or a roll of the eyes and a ‘don’t try and tempt me you old serpent’, but not this time. “No, no.” said the angel, oddly subdued, “I... tried it once, a few centuries ago. Needless to say, it didn’t go well. I’m afraid that angels simply aren’t built for such things.”

“Eh? How’d you mean?”

Aziraphale blushed a little. “We weren’t made to sleep, Crowley. I’m... not sure that I can. Not fully, anyway. My corporation might manage it, but not, ah, _me_.”

“Oh,” said Crowley, it suddenly dawned on him what the angel meant, “the _eyes_ , right? All of them all-seeing eyes, I gotcha.”

“Precisely. But please, don’t stay awake on my account. I’m sure it will feel wonderful to rest after such an ordeal.”

“It will, yeah. You should try it.”

A small huff of breath, the wine glass cradled in those plump hands. “I just _told_ you -”  
  


“I’ll help. Come on. You were the first angel to eat, right? The first angel to read books. The first angel to dance. I bet you can be the first angel to sleep, too. And you’re talking to the supreme napping champion here. I’ve got the expertise, the practice, the know-how. If there’s any being alive that can teach you how to drop off, it’s me.”

* * *

Aziraphale was always awake on some level. Even when his corporation was unconscious, he was _aware_. He could sense things happening around him, but was unable to move. It was a bit like sleep paralysis. In short, it was a completely terrifying experience that he had no desire whatsoever to revisit any time soon.

It had happened most recently when inhabiting Crowley’s body, the demons in the park had bonked him unceremoniously on the head from behind. Crowley’s corporation had flopped to the floor, but the angel’s ethereal eyes were still open and able to experience the rough treatment when they’d manhandled his unresponsive body down to Hell. 

He just hadn’t been able to do anything about it.

Aziraphale didn’t know if he _could_ actually close all of his eyes. He was scared to find out. Principalities were guardians, first and foremost. It would be going against his rank, his purpose, his heavenly _duty_ \- to close his eyes against those he was guarding. There was no turning back from that. No excuses could explain it away.

He tried to tell this to Crowley, who had gathered a bunch of bits and bobs ready for the angel’s nap, while Aziraphale sat nervously on the edge of his rarely used bed.

“I’ll be abandoning my post,” Aziraphale explained, “I can’t. Oh, Crowley. I _can’t._ ”

Crowley’s voice was gentle, cajoling. “What post? Your post is here now, with me. We’re on our own side, remember? And I can handle things on our side for a while... Maybe not an _extended_ while, mind you. But definitely for a bit.”

Aziraphale twisted his hands nervously in his lap. “No. No, I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be right.”

Crowley miracled up some sleeping clothes. They looked awfully soft. Brushed cotton, with small material covered buttons. “Do you trust me?” he asked.

“I...” Aziraphale sucked a trembling breath in, a half amused, half frustrated expression pulling at his lips, “oh, you, _you_...”

“Do. You. Trust. Me.”

“Of _course_ I do, you wretched thing.”

“Then let me watch over you while you sleep,” and it sounded so caring, that of course the demon had to follow it up with, “creepily, I mean.”

Aziraphale pouted, “Do you have to put it quite like that? I’m already nervous enough as it is without the thought of you peering at me while I’m vulnerable.”

“Oh, so it’d disturb you to have me ogling you all night, would it?”

“Yes. Of course. It would be much too... distracting.”

“Oh, yeah?” said the demon, with a mischievous quirk of his lips.

Aziraphale went pink. “Not like _that_.”

“Like what? I didn’t suggest anything. If you find me distracting, that’s entirely on you, angel.”

“Well, _really_ ,” said Aziraphale, snatching the set of pyjamas from Crowley’s outstretched hands and stomping off into the bathroom to get changed. 

* * *

Crowley knocked on the door. “You decent yet?”

The angel had been in there a while.

The door opened to reveal Aziraphale, he was clad in the periwinkle blue pyjamas and an honest to goodness _matching night cap_ that Crowley _definitely_ hadn’t given him.

The angel looked upset. “Good gracious, I’ve just had a thought,” he whispered, “what if I _snore?_ ”

“Fuck, I hope so,” Crowley grinned, “there’s gotta be something less than perfect about you, bring you down a bit closer to my level.”

“ _Crowley._ ”

Crowley led him to the bed and settled him underneath the puffy duvet and mound of soft blankets.

They were more affectionate with each other, but it was still new, still _startling_ to Crowley to be able to touch the angel so freely. Crowley tucked Aziraphale in, obnoxiously wedging the covers under his sides so he couldn’t escape.

“All right, so just, close your eyes. The weird ones, I mean.”

Aziraphale fidgeted a little, hands clasping over his stomach and worry lines deepening around his mouth. “Ah. Yes. No problem. There we go, all done.”

Crowley looked at him. The real him, along the ripples of the celestial plane. A thousand terrifying eyes stared back. “Oi! I said _close_ them.”

“I’m trying,” said Aziraphale, his lip trembling. And Crowley suddenly felt pretty bloody awful for raising his voice. “Oh, this is _hopeless_. This really was a very silly idea, let’s forget all about it hmm? I can’t believe I almost let you talk me into it. It’s preposterous! Whoever heard of a sleeping angel?”

He was working himself up. Crowley put a hand over the fingers worrying at the bedsheets.

“Can I help?”

Aziraphale shifted, wiggling his toes. “All right... but... do be _gentle_ with me.”

Crowley pressed the angel’s ethereal eyes closed with the gentle reverence such an act deserved.

Just as one closed, another opened.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he teased, drawing a careful demonic finger over each eye, until it succumbed to his gentle soothing suggestion.

He carried on, until only Aziraphale’s human eyes remained open, looking up at him with the light of the bedside table lamp reflecting in their watery grey depths. The angel’s voice was quiet, but there was a thread of desperation in it. A hand reaching out for something to grasp in the dark. “You’ll watch over me,” he asked, “won’t you?”

Crowley felt humbled by the open trust, and decided to open his mouth and ruin it. “Nah, thought I’d get up to some mischief while you’re too out of it to notice. Maybe draw something inappropriate on your face.”

Aziraphale gazed at him, beseechingly.

“Of course I’ll watch over you, you silly sod,” he grumbled.

“Thank you.”

“Shaddap. Don’t thank me yet, you might end up having some awful dream where a customer actually buys one of your books or something, and then I’ll never hear the end of it. Just. Get some sleep, all right?”

Aziraphale blinked, as if trying to get used to the tiniest fraction of pure darkness. Then he closed his eyes for a full second before opening them again. Then two seconds.

Crowley just watched, a small encouraging smile on his face.

“Don’t _look_ ,” mumbled the angel, “it’s disconcerting.”

“Well if you close your bloody eyes then you won’t know I’m looking, will you?”

“That’s _hardly_ comforting.”

Their first attempt didn’t go well.

“I can’t see, oh, I can’t see! It’s horrible.” Aziraphale’s fingers clutched at the duvet, “I don’t like it, Crowley - _please_ , let’s just stop and do something else.”

“Hey, it’s okay. You can still feel, right? And smell, and all the other stuff.”

“I want to open my eyes. Please, I - can I open them? Crowley?”

The demon squeezed the angel’s hand, gently. “Feel this?”

“ _Oh,_ ” Aziraphale let out a lungful of air all at once, in relief. “Oh _yes_ , there you are.”

“See? Nothing to worry about. I’m right here. Now just relax.”

“Relax. Er, right. I can - I can do that.”

The angel was stiff as a board, shoulders straight, muscles pulled taught. _Jesus Christ._

“What is it?” asked the terrified angel, wan-faced and trembling. “Oh no - oh dear - am I doing it wrong?”

“Yes. Yes, you’re bloody doing it wrong, but it’s not the end of the world. Look. You can’t sleep if you’re all tensed up like that. Can I touch you?“

Aziraphale squeezed his hand, “You already are.”

“I mean, er, other bits of you.”

“What _other bits?_ ”

“Not anything _weird_ \- not any bits you wouldn’t want touched, nghhh, just. Can I?”

“... I suppose. Do try not to grope me.”

“I’m not gonna _grope_ you.”

“Well,” sniffed the angel, looking a little less grey now that they’d fallen back on the familiarity of their bickering. “I’m entirely at your mercy.”

Fuck, Aziraphale must know what it did to him when he said things like that. The small tremulous little smirk pulling at his lips suggested that he very much did. “I’m gonna try and relax you all right? No funny business, I promise.”

“Oh, all right.” Why did he sound disappointed. Was that wishful thinking on Crowley’s part?

He released the angel’s hand to touch the taut broad shoulders, kneading them gently with his fingers and the heels of his palms.

The muscles clenched under his touch at first, but then slowly unwound, until Aziraphale’s posture was as lax as the demon had ever seen it - usually this level of ease was reserved for after three bottles of very good wine.

“How’s that? All right?”

“Hmm...? Yes, that’s lovely, very... very nice.”

“Not hurting?”

“Not at all, my dear.”

A few more minutes of gentle massage, and Crowley couldn’t believe his luck. He was finally touching the angel in an intimate, impossible way. And if Aziraphale’s little moans and breaths of pleasure were anything to go by, the angel was actually enjoying it, too.   


He was the luckiest demon alive.

The angel’s forehead was creased a little. While he was lying calm and pliant, Crowley soothed his hands over that pale neck next, brushing across the round swell of his jaw, and then up into Aziraphale’s soft hair, dislodging that ridiculous night cap.

“This okay?” he whispered, because anything louder would be blasphemous. Please say it was okay, for the love of all that’s unholy, this was the best day of his life. Let him touch Aziraphale like this forever, please.

A barely audible, “ _Mmm_ ,” of consent.

Crowley’s heart was hammering in his chest, as he let the trembling pads of his fingers rub circles into the white curls. He focused on the the glorious bit of tender pink skin behind the angel’s ears for a long moment.

“Ahhhh,” breathed the angel, in appreciation. The sound of it shot straight through Crowley like a bolt of bright heat.

“Good?”

“You’ve _no idea._ ”

“Good, great. Happy to... happy to help.”

“Crowley.”

“Yeah?”

“Would you kiss me?”

... _wot?_

Aziraphale didn’t open his eyes, but he lifted his chin. Crowley held stock still.

No, he couldn’t have meant it. Had to be a joke. Had to be Crowley’s own imagination playing tricks on him.

“Oh dear. I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale dipped his head back down, the skin beneath his chin folding pleasantly, “It just felt so lovely... I got carried away.”

“You can get carried away,” blurted Crowley, “you can carry me away too, all of me, whenever you want -”

And just like that, they were kissing. It was impossible to tell who moved first.

Crowley had never felt so whole, so alive, so present as he did in that one moment of time. Pressed carefully against that warm body, that gentle mouth.

All sorts of fizzly things tingled in his toes, his belly, across his lips. Nerve endings he didn’t even know he had, all _zzzzzapp!_

They broke apart, eventually. Because Crowley thought he might shake apart if they didn’t. Just fall into pointy bits like a broken window, or a bad jigsaw puzzle.

He was trembling all over. He couldn’t believe this was real. His eyes had been open the entire time, wide open, comically so - there was no way he was going to miss the tiniest little detail of their first kiss.

The little dimple of the angel’s brow, right _there_ , that told how much he was enjoying himself, the joyful crinkle of crow’s feet at the corner of his closed eyes, the new and brilliant pink flush of pleasure that bloomed on his cheeks and nose.

“Ungh, angel,” the demon swallowed, trying desperately to put his feelings into words - proper words - _heartfelt, meaningful, romantic words._ “That was... huh, that was... really...”

A soft sleepy breath brushed over his damp lips.

“... Aziraphale?”

The angel was asleep.

His hands were curled softly at his sides, expression gentle and carefree. The tiniest smile on his lips. He was utterly gorgeous.

And oh, Christ, he _snored_. Just little breathy whiffly things. Fffffuck.

Crowley’s hands were still in the angel’s hair, fingers curled around the back of his head. He eased the angel against the pillow and let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, hope you enjoyed it :) <3


	6. Get It Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Past me: I’ll just write a prompt a day! How hard could that be? 
> 
> Present me: You fool, you _imbecile._
> 
> Prompt: Get it out
> 
> tw: blood, wounds

Crowley was woken from his slumber by a very polite rap at the door. He groaned and shoved a pillow over his face and tried to suffocate himself with it. His mouth tasted funny. All tingly. Huh. That was weird. It felt just like when... just like when Aziraphale was in trouble.

He smacked his lips a little and rolled over.

And then his brain caught up.

Crowley shot out of bed in his pyjamas and legged it to the front door, moving so fast that he inadvertently broke the sound barrier - there was a sound like a whip cracking, and a burst of bright heat licking at his heels.  


He wrenched open the door.

There stood Aziraphale, calm as you like.

Well, on further inspection, the angel did look a little pale and sweaty, and he was clutching his blue woollen scarf over one arm.

“You. You. _What._ ”

All right, so Crowley wasn’t very articulate when he’d just been yanked out of bed at whatever god awful hour in the morning it was.

Luckily, Aziraphale didn’t beat around the bush. He offered up a dimpled smile and said, a little breathlessly, “Ah, good evening Crowley. I’m afraid I might’ve accidentally impaled myself.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. And then Crowley screeched, “Wha - _what?!_ What do you mean _impaled yourself?!_ ”

Aziraphale huffed lightly, looking pointedly at the space over Crowley’s left shoulder. The demon moved backwards and Aziraphale let himself in. “Oh, don’t make a fuss. I’m quite all right. But if you could just tug out the blade, I’d be ever so grateful. The handle is very slippery, and it’s awfully hard to do a miracle when, well, one is _impaled_. It rather twinges, a bit.”

Crowley slapped his hands over his cheeks. “ _Twinges?!_ ”

“Oh yes, very much so. And I thought, as I was so close to Mayfair, I might pop along and see if you wouldn’t mind giving me some assistance in the matter.”

“The matter,” wheezed Crowley.

“Yes.”

“The matter of you getting _stabbed._ ”

“Just so.”

Aziraphale took the scarf off his arm and revealed the knife embedded through it.

“Holy buggering _Christ_!” shrieked the demon.

Aziraphale gently nudged him into his own living room using the arm not currently impaled.

Crowley let himself be steered, mouth flapping. “How did this _happen?_ Angel, there’s no way you did this to yourself! You couldn’t have - who - who the _fuck?_ ”

Aziraphale sighed, and his breath caught a little on the way out. “Oh, all right. If you must know, it was a few ruffians in a back alley. They were barely even teenagers. It was frightfully embarrassing, so please don’t poke fun.”

Crowley seethed. His bare feet started to smoke. His fists clenched and tiny flames peeped out between the knuckles. “I’m going to _murder_ them -”

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself,” said the angel, as if this sort of thing happened all the time. As if he wasn’t currently standing in Crowley’s lounge dripping blood everywhere. “I took care of them.”

“Yeah?” said Crowley.

“Yes indeed. I told them off. _Sternly._ ”

Crowley should have guessed, Aziraphale always had to be so bloody _forgiving_. “Angel. They _stabbed_ you. And you _told them off?!_ ”

“Sternly,” reiterated the angel, with a little frown. “And, they were very apologetic after the fact. It was all just a big misunderstanding. You see, they thought I had a coin purse about my person, but once I explained -”

“ _Aziraphale._ Tell me who they were,” spat the demon, through sharpened teeth, “I’ll _kill_ them. I’ll _rip them to_ _shreds -_ ”

Aziraphale gave him a look. His eyebrow lifted, delicately. “Yes, well, as lovely as it is to have you come to my rescue, I just _said_ that I’d already taken care of the situation. I convinced them to take up ballet. Now. There is, however, another pressing matter that I need your help with. If you wouldn’t mind.”

He gestured to the knife handle sticking out of his arm.

As if Crowley might have missed the great big buggering thing.

The demon swallowed, audibly. “Right, right, er. Want me to get it out?”

“Oh, that would be _very_ kind of you,” said Aziraphale, swaying slightly. “Would you mind if I sat down first?”

“Yes. No! _Fuck_. Sorry. Go ahead.”

The angel sat. He dabbed daintily at his forehead with a handkerchief fished out of his breast pocket. He didn’t look very well. “Thank you.”

“Jesus,” said Crowley, flopping down next to him on the hard sofa, eyes wide and staring, “went right through, didn’t it? Holy _shit_. Look at that.”

“ _Crowley._ ”

“Oh. Right. I’ll just. Yeah.”

Crowley used a miracle in the end, because he didn’t think he could handle touching it. The blade slid out cleanly, and then the knife disappeared because Crowley didn’t want to have to look at the bloody thing anymore.

And - oof. Blood. Lots of it. Squirting. 

“Oh, goodness me,” said Aziraphale, looking whiter by the second, “ever so sorry, my dear. I’m making a mess of your dreadfully uncomfortable furniture.” He tutted, appraising the dark fabric. “Oh dear, you’ll never get the stains out. Best call it a lost cause, and throw the dratted thing away.”

Crowley squinted. “Did you come over here just to bleed all over my sofa, and force me into getting a new one?”

“Don't be absurd,” scoffed the angel, “but now that I _have_ , as you said, bled all over your sofa, you might as well see what’s on offer to replace it. I’ll gladly help you pick something out. Ooh! Something with a decent cushion on the bottom would be appreciated.”

Crowley tried not to think about Aziraphale’s cushioned bottom.

He failed.

He mopped up the remaining blood on Aziraphale’s arm with a miracled towel, and just ended up smearing it around a bit until it got caught in those tiny gold hairs and dried like streaks of rust. There was quite a bit of it. The wound was already beginning to scab over, thanks to Aziraphale’s ethereal healing abilities. But still, all that _blood_. It was only just registering to Crowley what exactly had happened.

The angel had been _stabbed_ , he’d been _bleeding_ \- and if the knife - if that knife had been -

Aziraphale put his cool hand over Crowley’s shaking ones.

“You’re doing very well,” murmured the angel, earnestly. His eyes were soft. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

Crowley dipped his head, clutching Aziraphale’s fingers as tight as he dared. “Fssskkk. _Shaddap_. You owe me a new sofa.”  


“You’re quite right,” breathed Aziraphale, with a wobbly smile. “Crowley, my dear, how would you feel about a Chesterfield?”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a mess. <3


	7. I’ve Got You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I’ve got you / carrying
> 
> Dialogue only :)
> 
> Established relationship. Innuendos. Mild whump. Humour. 
> 
> (No, I don’t know how they got into this ridiculous situation, they do it to themselves.)

“I’ve got you, angel.”

“Oh Crowley, do be careful with me.”

“I am - being - _careful_ \- _hrngkkkkkk_ -”

“Not like _that_. Dear, dear. Haven’t you ever dragged an uncooperative body across the floor before? You need to get a good firm grip under the armpits, like - yes, just like that, and then, ah, heave ho!”

“Don’t say that. Don’t say _heave ho_. Do you want me to leave you here?”

“Well, you know what I mean.”

“Fffffffffffff... _nghhhhh_... Jesus Christ. Why’d you have to be so bloody heavy?”

“Oh, that’s... that’s rather mean of you.”

“Wha? No no _no!_ You know I - _skkkkkk_ \- you’re beautiful, all right? It’s _me_ that’s the issue here, I’ve got weedy arms.”

“Hmph. Well then, you should have said that in the first place, rather than imply that my weight was the problem. What you should have said was, ‘why do my arms have to be so weedy.’ Not ‘why do you have to be so _bloody heavy._ ’”

“Yes, all right. I’m sorry I implied that lugging you across the floor was in any way an inconvenience, happy now?”

“Not particularly. Oh, my poor trousers. You’ve surely ruined them.”

“ _I’ve_ ruined them?”

“Well, you _are_ the one currently dragging them across the floor.”

“I’m dragging _you_ across the floor!”

“A technicality.”

“If you don’t like it, I can leave you here!”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, we both know you’d never do that.”

“Yeah? Well! ... Ffff!”

“Couldn’t you drag me a little, ah, gentler?”

“I _am_ being gentle! This is me, _being gentle._ ”

“Yes but, dear fellow - my _trousers_.”

“Look, I’ll gladly take them off for you if you keep grumbling about it, how’s that? Then you can have your thighs dragged across the floor instead, eh?”

“Oh, would you?”

“... what.”

“Would you be a dear and take my trousers off? They’re getting awfully crumpled and scuffed.”

“You. You want me. To take your trousers off?”

“Yes, I think that would be preferable to feeling them disintegrate with every passing moment, powerless to do anything to prevent it. Much better to do away with them entirely, don’t you think? You can carry them home.”

“Wot. No! _What?_ I’m not - I’m not doing that! What exactly do you want me to do?! Just - just strip you down and then drag you around half naked?!”

“You offered.”

“You’ll - you’ll get friction burns!”

“Well, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time...”

“...”

“...”

“Fffff?! You - you. You.”

“What?”

“...”

“Crowley they’re going to find us at this rate, do hurry it up. I’d do it myself but I don’t think I’d manage it under the current circumstances.”

“Aziraphale, I’m _not_ taking your bloody trousers off!”

“It was your idea.”

“I was joking! It was clearly a _joke_ , I can’t believe we’re actually talking about this.”

“Oh, never mind, fine. Fine. Have it your way.”

“Ngh.”

“Come on, then. We should get a move on. They’ll surely catch us if we tarry any longer! Be a good fellow and shove me inside that cupboard?”

“Right, hnnnnnnngggggggggggggkkkkkkkk.”

“...”

“...”

“Oh, it’s very roomy in here isn’t it?”

“Ha _ha_.”

“Would you kindly get your elbow out of my ribs.”

“That’s not my elbow, that’s a broom handle.”

“Oh... it bears remarkable resemblance. Very pointy.”

“Thanks.”

“Gosh, it’s awfully cosy in here, isn’t it. _Close_.”

“Yeah.”

“ _Intimate_ , one feels.”

“...”

“...”

“So... this is your plan is it?”

“Hmm?”

“ _Hiding in a cupboard._ ”

“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’m at a bit of a disadvantage here.”

“Pfff. I _noticed_ , all right. Nearly threw my back out.”

“... terribly sorry to be such a burden.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“How are your weedy arms holding up after all of that, er, manhandling?”

“Ffssssssss. Let’s just say, you owe me a hot bath and a massage after this.”

“Ooh, yes, that does sound rather lovely.”

“For _me_ , angel.”

“Mm. All right, I dare say I could rustle something up. I do have a wonderful collection of essential oils, you know - useful both for the bath and for deep tissue massage. Now, let’s see, do you prefer firm pressure, or...?”

“Weeellll, I mean, I can take it, sure. Just don’t pound out your wrath on me.”

“I shall endeavour not to.”

“So. The cupboard.”

“It’s as good an idea as any. We’ll just... wait them out.”

“That’s your plan. Wait them out?”

“Do you have a better one? Or are you just poking holes in mine?”

“I’m not poking holes, there’s no bloody need to poke holes, this plan is one great big buggering hole by itself.”

“You are utterly insufferable when you’re worried.”

“Insuff - I am _not!_ And I’m not worried either!”

“Of course you are, I’ve been incapacitated and we’re currently hiding in a cupboard, I’d be surprised if that didn’t worry you.”

“Ssss. Whatever.”

“...”

“...

“Do you suppose they’ve gone?”

“No.”

“Oh...”

“Fssss. We’re gonna get caught.”

“Oh now, don’t be like that. Chin up, dear boy.”

“Chin up? Don’t you bloody _chin up_ me.”

“Why not?”

“Well, you can’t even lift your chin by yourself at the moment, you shouldn’t be telling other people to. S’hypocritical.”

“All the more reason for you to do it for me. You know, my dear, optimism is the key to happiness.”

“Pfft. What kind of saying is that? That’s like saying happiness is the key to happiness.”

“Precisely.”

“What, so you just tell yourself you’re happy and you are?”

“Yes. Obviously. And I’m very happy right now, stuck in a cupboard with a moping demon, unable to feel anything from the neck down. Oh, I’m positively _overcome_ with unfettered _joy_.”

“Right, well. Don’t let me get you down.”

“I shan’t.”

“No luck on the old corporation front then?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Shame.”

“Hmm.”

“When do you think it’ll wear off?”

“How should I know? I don’t make a habit of getting shot by tranquilliser darts, you know.”

“Oh, but you make a habit of getting friction burns.”

“Oh!”

“What? You _said_ so - I _wasn’t_ -”

“No, no, never mind all that - I do believe I just wiggled my toe! Oh, how utterly marvellous! Crowley I could kiss you!”

“...”

“Look, look! See for yourself!”

“Angel, you’ve got your shoes on.”

“Well, take them off then.”

“I’m not taking off your shoe just to look at your toe wiggle!”

“Oh. Fine. I would’ve thought you’d be happy for me, but apparently your pessimism knows no bounds.”

“Ssssss. Gimme your foot.”

“I can’t move it, just the toe, you’ll have to lean down and - ah, that’s it.”

“... are you wearing tartan socks?”

“Of course I am.”

“Of course you are. Right, silly me. Go on then. Gimme your best wiggle.”

“Ah, oughtn't you remove the sock first? To get a better view.”

“...”

“Crowley?”

“Fine. I’m doing it. There.”

“Are you looking?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, good, I can’t see anything, I didn’t know if you were or not, it is awfully dark in here.”

“I’m bloody _looking_ , would you just wiggle it already.”

“...”

“...”

“Did you see?”

“Yep.”

“Was it spectacular?”

“... I mean, as much as a toe wiggle can be spectacular...”

“Oh, it can, it can indeed.”

“Then I guess it was pretty bloody spectacular.”

“Oh, well... thank you.”

“You want your sock back on, or...?”

“Yes, please. It wouldn’t do to be barefoot in a cupboard for too long. Rather scandalous, don’t you think?”

“...”

“No, no, you’ve put it on inside out, I can feel it.”

“What does it matter?”

“It matters a great deal!”

“Me me me -”

“Crowley, stop whinging, and just put it back on properly.”

“I’m _doing_ it!”

“Thank you.”

“There. I guess you want your shoe too?”

“How very astute of you.”

“Look, it’s not a good idea to insult the demon who currently has possession of your shoe. And the only one who’s currently able to move right now.”

“Harrumph.”

“Oh, the things I could do, angel.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would.”

“...”

“...”

“... I wasn’t _insulting_ you, I was _complimenting_ you. How very astute you are, my dear. Now please, give me back my shoe, you fiend.”

“Yeah? What if I keep it...?”

“Then when I get the use of my body back, you shall be very, very sorry indeed.”

“Ooh, I’m scared.”

“As well you should be. Now, my shoe, if you please.”

“Bah. You’re no fun.”

“Hmm. You just have a fascination with removing items of my clothing. First it was the _trousers_ , and now my poor _shoe_...”

“I - what? No, I don’t - _you_ were the one who -”

“It’s all right dear, you may remove them all you want once we’re safe at home, and I have the ability to do the same to you.”

“...”

“...”

“Crnk.”

“If you’re so inclined, that is.”

“Hrgl.”

“Are you all right?”

“...”

“I don’t suppose you could pop your head out for a moment, to see if they’re still out there? I find myself struck with the sudden, pressing need to get back to the bookshop.”

“...”

“...”

“... they’re not there, let’s book it.”

“...”

“...”

“Did you - did you just attempt a _miracle?_ ”

“Er.”

“How on _Earth_ could you forget - ! Don’t you think if we were capable of using magic, I would have purged myself of this vile toxin already? And we wouldn’t have had to hide in a cupboard, for goodness’ sake!”

“Oi, I’m just a bit distracted at the moment, all right?”

“Hmm, well, I suppose that’s... understandable.”

“Too right it is.”

“I must confess I’m getting a little impatient myself.”

“Well, I mean, we could just... you know. Here.”

“...”

“...”

“In a _cupboard?_ Are you _mad_?”

“What? I thought you said it was cosy.”

“Well, yes, but, I still don’t have full control of my limbs. I’d like to rectify that by going beyond whatever seal they’ve put on this dratted building.”

“So you don’t want to have a bit of a fumble, then?”

“Certainly not!”

“Not even a cheeky squeeze?”

“Well, I suppose... I wouldn’t be opposed. But I’d much prefer it to be reciprocal.”

“All right, fine, we’ll wait. So, what do we do now?”

“The solution is quite simple. You’ll have to carry me.”

“... How’s that, then?”

“Well, there are three options. The bridal carry -”

“Kkssss.”

“The fireman’s lift.”

“Oh, I like that one, big fan of that one, me, that’s suitably heroic.”

“Mm, it would certainly adhere to that complex you have.”

“Oi!”

“Or of course, there’s the piggyback. I’m inclined to the latter.”

“Doesn’t the piggyback involve you holding on in some capacity? Bit hard when you can’t move your limbs.”

“True, but it does afford me the lovely sight of the back of your head.”

“I dunno whether you’re insulting the rest of me or not.”

“Oh, darling, it’s always best to assume that I am.”

“Oi!”

“Tee hee.”

“Wha - what was that?!”

“Hmm?”

“Angel - I think - I think something’s in here with us!”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“THERE! Something just touched me!”

“What was it?”

“I dunno, it’s behind, er, my behind.”

“Good gracious, something’s touching your bottom? Dear, oh dear, how utterly scandalous!“

“... It’s you isn’t it.”

”By startling coincidence, I do believe I’ve just regained control of my fingers.”

“Can I snog your face off now?”

“How vulgar.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Of course it’s a yes. Though I’d much prefer to keep my face on, thank you. No need to cause any celestial explosions by removing our corporations just yet.”

“Right. Save that for when we get home?”

“Oh, _yes_. And I still fully expect to be carried.”

“... all right then, fine. You twisted my arm. But no piggybacks.”

“Oh dear. Are you quite sure? Dear me, what a shame. I would’ve thought you would enjoy having my thighs wrapped around you.”

“Wha - what - _Aziraphale!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading :) <3


	8. Isolation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. Been completely wiped out by a migraine these past few days. Whoops. I have some catching up to do.
> 
> But, you’ll be pleased to know, I’m back on my bullshit :)
> 
> This is unedited and probably terrible and it’s dark and I’m wearing sunglasses.
> 
> Prompt: Isolation

It had been months since Aziraphale had seen another face.

Well, not counting the ones that he peeped out of the window at, of course. He twitched at the curtains with a thumb and gazed out into the street, just to make sure that everything was as tickety boo as it could be out there. That no one required angelic assistance.

He found it was rather hard to recognise any of the locals with those masks pulled up over their nose. Still, Aziraphale found himself rather taken with the designs - there had been some very stylish face coverings that he had a mind to purchase, if only for cosmetic reasons. Anything to put the humans at ease.

Oh! Perhaps, Aziraphale could fashion a mask out of some left over fabric? He had saved many of his clothes over the centuries, that could be repurposed and given new life. Well, it was certainly a possible future project to look into. He believed he had an old pedal operated sewing machine around here somewhere...

There now, do you see? Gosh. He was keeping _ever so_ busy, indeed. He didn’t need to interact with anyone when he had so very much to keep himself occupied.

Though, Aziraphale dare say he might miss the humans. Just a little.

But he was absolutely _fine_.

He knew that the other angels often thought that he should feel lonely on Earth, being the only angel down here for any prolonged stretching time. He should feel isolated. But the truth was, he had only ever felt true loneliness when he was in Heaven. Surrounded by his fellow angels who did not understand him, one jot.

Anyway, Aziraphale enjoyed being alone.

It meant that he had plenty of time to get on with things without being disturbed by customers.

Now, what was on the agenda for today... Let’s see.

He’d already baked everything that he took a fancy to in the cookbooks, the remnants of which were scattered throughout the bookshop. A few grand cakes stood proudly on the window ledge that he hadn’t yet cut into because they’d been much too pretty to eat. There were still a few Welsh cakes left in the shortbread tin - which he might nibble on in the afternoon, if he were feeling peckish. Oh, and he’d eaten the last of the sherry trifle last night with a long spoon while listening to the phonograph.

If he were honest, Aziraphale thought that might be him _done_ with the whole baking thing.

Cakes and biscuits and the like, well, they were always better when shared. Or, more specifically, when they were made by someone else and then given to him. Aziraphale could taste the love that went into every food the humans made - and as a result his own efforts were sorely lacking.

Still, no matter. Lots to do.

He was sure. Didn’t do to just sit around.

Aha! Yes, of _course_.

It was high time he cleaned his snuffbox collection!

Aziraphale went to his desk and set things up for a day of polishing and cleaning. He had a wooden tray full of silver snuffboxes in front of him, an array of delicate utensils, buffing cloth and polish. He donned his white cotton gloves, and brought the silver up to a gleaming shine.

He could see his face reflected in the metal.

It looked oddly tired. A little pinched around the eyes.

Dear dear, would you look at that - he’d been at it all day! The sun was going down, casting long shadows over him and his precious snuffboxes. Well, no wonder he looked a little worn. A cup of cocoa would soon set him to rights.

Aziraphale got out of his chair, and - _oh_. It was as if the blood had rushed into his ears, like the swell of an ocean wave crashing on the shore. A rush of white noise. Blobs of black obscured his vision, careless blots of ink on a page. He put a hand to his forehead for a moment and everything seemed to right itself.

Goodness. Must be the polish, he reasoned, it always did go to his head.

Aziraphale removed his gloves carefully and put the snuffboxes away into their cabinet.

Cocoa. That was just the ticket. He made himself a cup, took one hesitant sip - it was piping hot - and then put it down with a small thump, attention diverted.

Oh! Well, _really_. Now that wouldn’t do.

That blasted seventh bookcase on the right - it always tended to have a mind of its own!

Aziraphale suspected the books had gained a sort of sentience and rearranged themselves into an order of their liking with no regard for the angel’s own perfected system. Well, it was that or the fabric of reality was just a little looser in that particular section of the shop, as was common when a large number of books were involved in a small space, and there was some hitherto unknown outside interference. 

Either way those books were _up to no good_. It was an awful faff, but he set to it, scolding them lightly as he did so. He sorted them meticulously, in an order that no customer in their right minds would be able to decipher.

There, all better.

“Now,” Aziraphale waggled a finger at the bookcase, “you just _behave_ yourselves.”

And then he put a steadying hand on the shelf he’d just organised.

He felt rather faint.

How odd.

Perhaps - perhaps he ought to sit down. Aziraphale shivered, and decided to put on his house coat first. He popped his feet into a pair of well worn fluffy slippers. Crowley had given them to him one year as a joke and he’d treasured them ever since.

“Awfully nippy,” Aziraphale mumbled to the books, rubbing his hands together to generate some warmth.

He checked an old barometer which hung on the wall, a lovely brass old thing that he’d picked up. Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure how it worked, but always expected it to nonetheless. The arrow pointed to what it usually did. _Rain_. Hmm. Perhaps he’d caught cold.

If such a thing were possible.

Aziraphale sat at his desk, shuffling a few papers.   


There, a lovely sit down. He could get on with his translations.  


But it was getting increasingly difficult to decipher any of the words on them - it was as though they were written in french.

It was starting to dawn on Aziraphale that there might be something terribly wrong with him.

He tucked his shaking hands under his armpits and huddled in on himself. Not his usual posture by any means, but - it was just so _frightfully_ cold. Fat drops of water began to drum at the windows, and the whorls and rivulets of rain on the glass made it impossible to see outside. He felt truly alone like he never had before.  
  


Not on Earth.

Aziraphale pondered for a long moment. 

He was perfectly content here. Nothing much had changed besides the lack of social interaction, and to be fair, he had never indulged much in it to begin with, preferring to keep to himself.

But he felt... Aziraphale put a hand to his chest.

_Spooky_.

Yes, that was it.

There was an absence of love. As if he were hollowed out. As if he were that trifle bowl that Aziraphale had licked clean the night before, as if there had been a wealth of feeling inside of him, rich and warm, but now it was missing.

He was empty.

Oh.

Oh, of _course_. He should have realised the truth of the matter sooner. Angels were _beings of love._ It stood to reason that if one were cut off from any heavenly and earthly sources, they would surely...

Oh _dear_.

Aziraphale hadn’t felt any love in months and months. He hadn’t tasted any in food prepared by caring hands, nor witnessed two lovers run across the street with their hands clasped tightly, ducking and giggling at the honking traffic, nor exchanged silly gossip with his barber, or offered a book recommendation to his manicurist while having his hands held so very gently.

And he hadn’t seen Crowley, either. Who, the angel could now admit freely, was his one constant source of affection. Aziraphale hadn’t been touched by the demon’s thoughtful gifts, or offer of dinner, or shared joy in an anecdote of some bygone age.

Oh, just Crowley’s company alone. Seeing him able to relax here. Just a glance of that wicked smile would be enough.

The crooked one that he sometimes gave Aziraphale when he thought the angel wasn’t looking.

Aziraphale tilted forward, overcome.

Oh, he - he felt awfully cold.

...

Crowley woke up.

Oof, shouldn’t have done that. Off to a bad start.

He squinted blearily at the alarm clock but it was of no buggering use at all. He checked his phone instead. October. Shit still happening, apparently. Great.

Crowley scrubbed a hand over his face.

Best ring the old angel and get the proper news. On the stuff he actually cared about. Namely, the old angel himself.

Crowley huddled under the blankets and stuck the phone to his ear.

It rang.

And rang.

And Aziraphale didn’t pick up.

Few things could make Crowley feel truly scared. When you were a demon, frightening things were just part and parcel of the job description. He ate mild terror for breakfast, thank you very much. But Aziraphale not answering his trusty old telephone in the middle of a pandemic, was certainly enough to upend a bucket of cold fear over his head.

Crowley sat up in bed, heart thumping. He called again. No answer.

Right. Fine. Probably a reasonable explanation for Aziraphale not answering the rotary dial, a perfectly reasonable explanation that he couldn’t think of at the moment while his head was full of slush.

He’d just pop over, very quickly. Maybe look through the window. See Aziraphale pottering about, realise he was being stupid, maybe bang on the window a bit to make the angel startle.

With any luck Aziraphale would pout at him, a hand at his chest in indignation, and maybe even shoo the demon off with a rolled up newspaper.

Yeah, he’d just _check_.

He wasn’t concerned.

But he’d check, anyway. Maybe Aziraphale had popped out for the weekly shop, er, not that he needed to. He’d hardly take any essential items away from the humans when he could miracle them in himself.

Crowley called again while legging it down the stairs, and twice again in the Bentley.

The bookshop itself offered no clues as to the angel’s whereabouts. There was a closed sign on the door, and the lights were off.

Crowley pressed his face to the window, breath fogging the glass. But he couldn’t see anything of use. Just a bunch of stale-looking cakes...

Oh, _fuck_. The angel would never let such a thing happen to food, but look - that cream had turned yellow, and - and there was mould growing on that cherry -

Crowley might have _accidentally_ broken down the door.   


Yes, all right, he could easily have used a miracle, but he hadn’t been thinking clearly - he’d been a bit fucking scared out of his mind, all right?

He soon found the angel.

Aziraphale was slumped at his desk, unmoving. The inkwell had tipped over, and there was dried blue ink on his fingertips and creeping like veins over the palm of his hand, the bottom of the sleeve of his grey house coat was saturated in it. His head was resting on his arm, but the face was turned away. Crowley could see nothing but the top of the angel’s white curls.

“Aziraphale?”

He was... asleep? Crowley came forward in two long strides. That was bloody unlikely, the angel didn’t sleep, especially not like this - if Aziraphale ever attempted so much as a nap, there’d no doubt be a long Victorian night gown involved, and a sleeping cap with a ridiculous tassel on the end of it. 

“Aziraphale?” he asked again, reaching forward to grip at the angel’s shoulder to shake him.

The angel’s head lolled to the side, revealing slack features. His eyes were closed, as if in sleep, face relaxed and expressionless.

Crowley swallowed down his panic.

He cleaned up the spilled ink with a thought, knowing that it would disturb Aziraphale no end if he woke up to see how it stained him.

And then Crowley bellowed, “Oi! _Wake up!_ ”

The angel was cold under his searching hands, the skin of his cheek was icy as Crowley tilted his face upwards trying to glean if there was a wound somewhere - or maybe the angel had hit his head - or been drugged? But there was nothing to indicate any foul play.

He was just so horribly _cold_.

Crowley slapped him lightly on the cheek, and then felt bad about it. And then slapped him again, because there was no reaction from the angel at all and he was starting to panic.

He shouldn’t have left Aziraphale alone.

“Wake up, come on! What are you trying to do, gimme a heart attack? Oi! _Aziraphale!_ This isn’t funny!”

A grey eye opened, soft and unfocused. Crowley latched onto the angel with renewed vigour.

“Oh thank fuck, you’re alive!”

“Mmff?” said the angel, which was as inarticulate as Crowley had ever heard him, and all the more worrying because Aziraphale wasn’t even drunk.

“There you are,” he said, just nonsense coming out of his mouth at this point, anything he could think of to coax Aziraphale back into waking thought, “There you are, angel. Come on, that’s it. Up you get.”

Aziraphale looked at him, groggily. His brow was furrowed.

“Oh _Crowley_ ,” he breathed, in wonder. “It’s you.”

“Of _course_ it’s me. What wrong with you, you’re - you’re cold, angel, you were - what _happened?_ ”

Aziraphale took a moment to acclimatise himself. Blinking slowly, and licking his lips.

Then he dropped his gaze, fiddling with his waistcoat buttons. “Nothing,” he said.

Crowley wasn’t having it. “Don’t gimme that! You don’t sleep. And I find you passed out, and - and bloody freezing! _What happened._ ”

Aziraphale swallowed. He stilled his hands. “I think I just... I got a little lonely.”

He said it as though he were admitting to a grievous offence and not merely wanting a little companionship.

Crowley didn’t understand, “What, and that made you keel over into a bloody _coma_?”

“Nothing so dramatic,” Aziraphale murmured. But Crowley had seen him, had felt that awful leeching cold, had been worried out of his skin.

If Aziraphale said that loneliness had done this to him, then maybe it had. There was nothing but truth in his words. 

Crowley didn’t like the thought of that at all. Of Aziraphale sat here, sick with loneliness. While Crowley had been snuggled up and snoring only a few miles away. Christ, he was so bloody selfish. Of _course_ Aziraphale would need company. Of course he bloody would. He so loved the world, it was probably killing him to be cut off from it.

Crowley should have insisted he come over, should have danced their familiar dance until the angel had given in like he had really wanted to. But he’d been so bloody tired after everything. 

They were just looking at each other now, unsure of the next move.

Oh, bugger this. Crowley knew what they both needed.

“Come here, you idiot,” he said, and he didn’t take no for an answer, gathering the angel into his arms. 

Aziraphale went easily, eagerly. His eyes were damp as he pressed his face into the crook of Crowley’s neck.

“Ffffff! You’re like a bloody _icicle_ ,” Crowley complained, but he gripped him all the tighter.

Aziraphale released a shaky breath.

Crowley’s hands were on his back, rubbing soothingly. “Won’t leave you on your own again, promise.”

“It’s my fault. I should have...”

“Shh. Shut up,” Crowley said, as gently as he dared.

They held each other. For a good long while. So long, that Aziraphale was starting to thaw in Crowley’s arms. His hands were warm around the demon’s back. Crowley held him close.

Aziraphale pulled away just a little to sniffle. “Oh, where’s my handkerchief? I’m so sorry, dear boy, I’m an absolute mess.”

“Pfft, what’s a little snot between six thousand year old friends?” Crowley miracled a handkerchief with a little embroidered snake on the corner, just to see Aziraphale huff out a wobbly laugh at the sight of it.

There was a watery smile which was soon covered by the handkerchief as Aziraphale inelegantly blew his nose. Crowley counted it as a win.

“So. I’m staying,” said the demon, with no room for argument, “got any booze?”

“Oh, _oh_.” The relief was palpable in those shining grey eyes. “Really? Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

“You’re not. Don’t - _listen_ , you’re going to be wishing that I’d bloody left you alone in a minute. I’m going to be a completely fucking obnoxious roommate. You’ll soon be sick of the sight of me, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled, and pink bloomed in his cheeks. “Of you? Never.”

And he sounded so _sure,_ thatCrowley went weak at the knees. “Bah, you’ll be eating your words soon, angel, I’m telling you.”

“Let me get the brandy, hmm? Something to warm the cockles.”

Crowley steered him down onto the sofa, and carefully tugged a blanket over the angel’s shoulders. Aziraphale looked at him so gratefully that it _hurt_. “I’ll get it angel.”

A few minutes into his rummaging through the angel’s eclectic alcohol collection, there was a gasp of shock from the other room. Crowley popped his head out of the doorway, still on edge, just to check that something else hadn’t happened.

Aziraphale was up, and he looked furious.

“Crowley,” he said dangerously, brandishing a hand out of the blanket still draped over him like a cloak, “would you kindly tell me, what in _the buggering Hell_ you’ve done to my front door?!”

Crowley ducked back in before he was smote, but not before yelling back - “Told you so!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this one, you might like my other isolation (solitary confinement) story [So Still I Wait](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21446815/chapters/51106993) :)


	9. Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative Prompt: Water
> 
> tw: drowning
> 
> Trying my best to catch up, please bear with me :)

Aziraphale was barely conscious when he hit the water. The vessel he’d been sailing aboard had been claimed by the sea. It had sunk in a matter of minutes, water gushing in through a hole in the stern and people jumping overboard in droves.   


Just absolutely _rotten_ luck.  


Though, now that Aziraphale thought about it, Gabriel had appeared suspiciously smug when he’d handed over this particular assignment. In hindsight, perhaps Aziraphale should have suspected something untoward might happen. As it was, he’d been charmed by the quaint little onboard bar, and the delightful seafood dishes, and the little candles they lit at dusk, and - oh.  


All at the bottom of the sea now.  


At least there’d been plenty of lifeboats. A shame he’d been swept away almost immediately, but the humans might fair better than he.

Aziraphale’s corporation had sunk just as the ship had, down down down into the deep.

Not the most buoyant of things, corporations. A major design flaw if you asked him.

The angel was aware that he was currently drowning, but his limbs wouldn’t move and he resigned himself to sorting out this wretched mess when his head didn’t hurt quite so much.

It was true that, as an angel, Aziraphale didn’t need to breathe. Strictly speaking, he had no business breathing, but upon being hitting the frigid water, he had taken a startled reflexive breath in.

The ice cold water drawn into his lungs shouldn’t have bothered him, at all. 

But gosh, it _stung_. It _burned_. Aziraphale coughed and spluttered and - oh dear, well, now he’d truly gone and done it. There was soon nothing left in his lungs but freezing water, and an odd, tight twisting sensation in his chest.

He watched as the last of the air bubbles escaped up to the surface.

Drowning.  


Dear, dear. 

It was an awfully unpleasant business. But not enough to discorporate him, thank goodness.

At first Aziraphale was glowing, so sure that he could find the surface easily, for he was an Angel of the Lord and had a wonderful sense of direction. However, as the hours wore on, and he became aware that he was actually quite lost, his natural glow began to dim, until he was left with nothing but the murky darkness for company.

You see, Aziraphale was used to pretending to feel gravity pulling him down to the floor while on Earth. But with the absence of a steady foothold, he wasn’t exactly sure which way was up, and he must have accidentally turned himself around at some point, or been tossed by the current, and now no matter which way he swam he always seemed to hit the silty bottom.

He was all topsy turvy.

It was terribly gloomy down here. Odd bulky shapes drifted just on the edge of his vision, probably some great hulking Leviathans of the deep.

Goodness, maybe he’d even encounter a kraken! That would surely be an anecdote he could suitably embellish and then tell Crowley about over a few well deserved glasses of wine.

At first Aziraphale had felt the cold keenly, but now he was numb to it. There were wrinkles on his fingers, that he could feel as he worried his hands together. As if he’d languished too long in the bath.

His clothes were heavy and saturated, keeping him close to the sea bed. The saltwater stinging at his eyes became a familiar pain, and Aziraphale found it easier to close them because the darkness of his eyelids was preferable to the darkness of the unknown.   


Best not think about it.  


He was okay. Everything was all right. A bit of darkness never hurt anyone. 

Oh! He whirled about, so sure that something had touched the back of his neck - but he could see nothing. A passing fish perhaps, or - or a tentacle? 

Dear Lord, he hoped not.

What if he never found his way out? All _manner_ of terrible things could lurk down here. He’d surely be a very tasty morsel for something that lived in the dark and fed off nothing but whatever drifted down from the surface. Perhaps - even now, at this very _moment_ \- he was being stalked by something with sharp needle like teeth, a large gaping mouth, and soulless milky eyes!

Aziraphale closed his eyes and shook his head, clasping his hands together tightly.

He’d been reading too many scary stories. 

Eventually the angel somehow reoriented himself. He pushed upwards from the dark sand, hoping against hope to reach the surface, willing his halo into existence to illuminate his way. It was very slow going, as waterlogged and sluggish as he was.

The water gradually became lighter, a gradient that changed from black to midnight blue, and now, finally the water began to clear, and he started to see little shining fish and driftwood.

Aziraphale would have sighed a breath of abject relief, if he’d had one to spare. The surface twinkled merrily above and he reached for it with desperate fingers.

He pulled himself out of the water, pruny hands grasping the surface as if it were a ledge. One saturated elbow hit the surface with a wet slap, then the other - he hauled his body out to to kneel awkwardly upon the moving sea, hacking up a good deal of saltwater out of his lungs in a ghastly mess.

Good _gracious_ , it burned something horrible. And the _salt._ Oh, may he never season anything ever again, it was positively vile!

Aziraphale got to his feet with a wobble, standing on top of the churning sea with no little difficulty. 

He took a moment to get his bearings, then decided he really ought to try and find a way home. He squinted around for - well, any bloody thing really.

The sea stretched endlessly around him for miles.

Wait. Was that...?

There - in the distance! A boat! He was _saved!_

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, delightedly, relief washing over him like the tide over his toes, “what a spot of luck!”

He ran towards the boat, puffing a little, his wet clothes clinging to him like a second skin. It was dreadfully uncomfortable and had started to chafe something awful particularly between his soft thighs and under arms.

“I say!” called Aziraphale, waving his arms about as he huffed and puffed, “Hullo! Hullo up there! Could I possibly trouble you for a lift? I seem to find myself a little far from home! Hullo?!”

They couldn’t hear him, it was a rather large ship.

Aziraphale hurried closer, hoping to clamber aboard as a stowaway, his wet trousers slapped around his ankles and his breath came in sharp pants.

A particularly choppy wave caught at his feet and he tripped, landing on the shifting, frothing water with an “oof!” It was very difficult to get up again. The sea was rather like a large waterbed that someone was bouncing on and he couldn’t quite get his feet under him to find his balance.

By the time he had managed it, it was too late.

“Oh _bugger_ ,” muttered Aziraphale, despairingly, trying not to be knocked off his feet again by the wake of the fleeing boat.

He stood for a moment, pondering the merits of running after it. Oh, it was no use, he’d probably just fall over again and do himself a mischief. Besides, it was much too fast for him to catch up with.

The angel stood a while longer, before all the wobbling about started to make him feel ill. Best be in motion himself, perhaps that would cancel out the effect of the rolling sea on his poor stomach.

Aziraphale set off in the direction he hoped would lead him back to land with a disappointed pout.

After a while he became aware of something breaking the surface a few lengths away, a big spurt of water and the crown of an enormous barnacle encrusted head.

A _whale!_

Aziraphale, who loved all God’s creatures great and small, was rather heartened by the sight. Oh, what a treat, he’d never seen one before. He ran over to the breaching mammal, trying not to get doused with water as it bellyflopped a few times. Great arcs of water engulfed him from head to toe.

He spluttered, wiping the water from his face with a very wet handkerchief.

“Excuse me!” he said, very loudly. Unsure if whales had ears.

The whale lazily lay on its side, mid roll, unbothered by the waves. One small black eye regarded the bedraggled angel with interest.

“Goodness me, you are a magnificent creature,” Aziraphale exclaimed, wringing out his coat. “I do hope you’ve stopped that beastly splashing though, I’m getting a trifle damp.”

The whale, seemingly, had.

“Thank you. I have it on good authority that you’re a rather intelligent being, with a brain the size of a city, er, metaphorically speaking of course. I don’t suppose you could help me find my way back to land?”

A dip of its head, one gigantic flipper raised, streaming with rivulets of white water.

Aziraphale may not speak whale, but it seemed his new friend had understood him perfectly. “Oh, thank you, _thank you_. You’re very kind.”

He proceeded to walk unsteadily over the top of waves, like cresting hills, the whale a companionable dark shadow beneath his feet.

His tartan socks squelched inside his shoes. Oh, his poor shoes. They were surely ruined. Leather never did well when immersed in water for long periods of time. He did try to miracle them dry, but it was a completely hopeless endeavour, as no matter what he did, he was drenched again in minutes. 

The whale, though immensely helpful, did have the tendency to slosh water at him with the large elongated V of his tail.

Oh bother, he’d never get the smell of seaweed out of his beloved suit.

He was sure that the sea was out to get him. A mysterious and unforgiving mistress. She seemed intent on him remaining sodden through!

Aziraphale grieved over his wet attire for a good few minutes before lifting his chin and declaring himself a very foolish angel indeed for worrying over silly things that simply couldn’t be helped. No, he ought to think only of getting home, as quickly as possible. That was his priority.   


At long last, land appeared on the horizon and the water became too shallow for his newly acquired behemoth of a friend. The angel saw the whale off with a wave, and a small, wet blessing of a long life with lots of krill.  


The whale waved him off with a splash of his tail, and Aziraphale was once again, sopping wet.  


The first feeling of ground finally beneath the angel’s feet almost made him weep with joy. Oh, to be _stable_ again, to be still and upright and not constantly _jostled about_.

He felt as though he’d just spent the day in Crowley’s car, while the demon laughed maniacally and drove at ridiculous speeds around every roundabout in Milton Keynes.

He miracled himself dry as soon as he’d hobbled up the beach and away from the crashing waves.

Aziraphale’s clothes were encrusted with salt, stiff, dry and scraping. Great white flakes of the stuff sloughed off whenever he moved. His sleeves were crispy as dried seaweed. And he _really_ didn’t want to contemplate the state of his hair - no doubt it was horrendously matted by the vicious wind.

  
He patted at himself, and made his way up the beach.

What a ghastly ordeal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I really just write about Aziraphale making friends with a whale? 
> 
> Yes. Yes I did ;)
> 
> Thanks so much for your encouraging comments, they’re really helping to keep me going <3


	10. Blood Loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I knew this would be hard, but it’s like someone’s stolen my brain and replaced it with a partially digested jelly bean.
> 
> Prompt: Blood loss
> 
> tw: blood, wounds

Crowley was going to meet Aziraphale for dinner at some place that had a name he couldn’t pronounce properly. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure what kind of food they served. He stuck to the wine, mostly. But he _did_ like that the owner always put a little lit candle on the table top, for reasons he wouldn’t go into.

Shut up.

It was just a meeting. To exchange report notes. It wasn’t a date, it was strictly professional. A strictly professional meeting where he did his best to get the angel tipsy.

Anyway.

Crowley always waited outside when he wasn’t escorting the angel to the restaurant personally. Mainly, so that he could make a grand gesture of sweeping the door open for Aziraphale, who would then duck his head in a pleased manner, causing the soft skin beneath his chin to fold.

Gentlemanly acts always tended to bring out the angel’s dimples. Crowley would be a fool not to take advantage of that at every possible opportunity.  


However, if Aziraphale arrived before him, the angel usually found himself ushered inside by a friendly member of staff. Because he couldn’t _possibly_ say no, apparently, that would be awfully rude of him. And then he’d be asked by the excited chef if he’d like to sample the warm bread straight from the oven, and that would inevitably end in the angel having his ear talked off by the waiter while he bit delicately into a freshly steaming roll.

So, on those occasions, Crowley would find him already seated at their table.

As the demon was a bit late - all right, a _lot_ late - but it wasn’t his fault, it was the bloody _traffic_ , which had been held up by a great big buggering goose, of all the stupid things, that had probably waddled its way over from one of the parks, and planted its huge flappy orange feet in the middle of the road and refused to get out of the way, honking like a bloody foghorn - Crowley had eventually disappeared it once he’d got close enough, but not after having a honk-off with the winged demonic creature by slamming his hand repeatedly on the Bentley’s horn.

Anyway, point _was_ , Crowley was late. So, he thought the angel had probably already been herded inside by a well meaning employee. Probably making a dent in a basket of rolls, and spreading them generously with butter.

Nghh. And Crowley was _missing_ it.

The demon left the Bentley mounted on the lip of pavement outside, parked on the double red lines, and hurried into the restaurant. He grunted his name at the maître d', sweeping his hair back to try and make himself look a bit more presentable, and as if he hadn’t spent the best part of quarter of an hour shouting obscenities at waterfowl.

They were all smiles. “Good evening, Mr Crowley! Mr Fell hasn’t arrived yet. Would you like to wait for him at your table?”

Eh? Not here yet? Crowley frowned and looked at his phone. Aziraphale was rarely ever late, let alone by a whole twenty minutes. _Bless it all._ Something was up.

He’d _thought_ he’d got some bad vibes on the drive over here, but he’d assumed it had been the bloody goose. That thing was true evil, the devil’s own satanic bird, with a menacing aura - it was entirely likely that it had thrown off his _Aziraphale-is-in-peril_ radar.

He went cold all over, swallowing down the fear that had climbed up his throat. Shit, maybe something had happened - 

“Oh!” said the maître d', whose name Crowley could never remember, “Never mind, here he comes now.”

Crowley turned around to see a very flustered looking angel pull on the push handle of the door with a grimace, he did this twice before eventually making his way inside in a rather wobbly fashion which had Crowley instantly concerned.  


What the buggering hell had happened to him?

Aziraphale looked like he’d been pulled through a bloody hedge backwards. His hair was flattened with sweat, his bow tie was askew, there was mud on the coat he’d wrapped tightly around himself, and he had one arm wrapped around himself protectively, white fingers clutching at the material - Crowley noted all of this with a shocked flick of his eyes over the angel’s form, instantly on edge.

“Hullo Oliver,” Aziraphale wheezed, noticeably breathless, and very, very pale, “so lovely to see you.”

Oliver! _That_ was it. The human looked as alarmed as Crowley felt, “Mr Fell! Forgive me sir, but you don’t appear well - are you all right?”

Crowley couldn’t get over the sheer state the angel was in. He just stood there, gawping. What kind of question was that? _Was he all right._ Did he bloody _look_ all right?

Aziraphale put on a smile that trembled precariously about. “Yes yes, just fine, absolutely tip-top! Though, ah. Ah. Ha. If I might just talk to Crowley for a second? I’m - I’m afraid something’s come up.”

And with that Aziraphale took Crowley’s arm, and dragged the startled demon into the toilets.

Crowley’s shoes squeaked audibly on the floor as he found himself bundled into the small tiled room by a sweaty, panting angel.

“Aziraphale, wha - _oi!_ What do you think you’re _doing?_ You can’t just pull me into the gents! Fuck knows what they think we’re gonna get up to in here.”

He expected a blush, or at least an explanation, but got neither.

“Aziraphale?”

The angel’s eyelids were drooping alarmingly, and he swayed. Crowley clutched at his arm to keep him upright.

Someone opened the door behind them, casually pushing it from the other side.

Crowley instantly turned his head into a monstrous thing with too many teeth and great yellow bulging eyes and hissed bloody murder at the poor bastard.

Needless to say, the poor human froze in shock for all of three seconds, probably having violent heart palpitations, then they let out a startled “ _Eep!_ ” and legged it.

Crowley locked the door with a twist of his wrist.

“Angel, talk to me. Hey! _Aziraphale_.”

Aziraphale took a large shuddering breath in. “Promise me... that you won’t panic.”

Oh fuck, oh shit, well he was _definitely_ fucking panicking now.

“I. I. Got into a... spot of bother.”

Aziraphale opened his coat that he had been clutching so tightly, his shaking fingers fumbling on the buttons. Crowley hadn’t prepared himself, couldn’t possibly have prepared himself - he sucked in a frightened breath at the sight.

The inside of Aziraphale’s coat was awash with blood - his jumper and shirt was saturated - so much so that Crowley had no bloody idea where it was all coming from.

He screeched. “Holy _fuck!”_

The angel gripped a sink, leaving a bloody handprint there. “Sh. _Shh_. Be quiet. Someone will hear you.”

“Bit bloody late for that!” shouted the demon.

“Crowley, _please_ , keep your voice down -”

“What the heaven happened to you?! Fuck, there’s so much blood!”

Aziraphale had paled significantly in the short time he’d tugged the demon in here, Crowley didn’t think he could look any worse but now he was practically translucent. The angel swallowed and braced himself against the wall, taking shallow breaths.

“Aziraphale?”

The angel’s knees buckled.

Oh _shit_. Crowey lunged for him and as he slid slowly down the wall he’d been leaning against. The demon carefully lowered him to the ground, propping Aziraphale up as best he could, and swearing under his breath.

“Oh shit, ohhh bollocks,” he breathed, terrified. “Okay, okay okay, let me see.”

He miracled off the coat and jumper, they landed with a wet slap on the floor next to them. Then he took hold of Aziraphale’s shirt, tugging it out of his trousers and ripping the mother of pearl buttons open. The angel’s chest was wet with red, the shirt sticking, and - _there_. There it was. A gash on his chest, weeping blood.

His mouth went dry. “Oh, _angel_.”  


Aziraphale managed a self-deprecating smile, grey eyes shining. “You - you should -”

“Let me fucking guess, I should see the _other_ guy?”

“Goodness me, no. That would be... quite impossible,” said the angel, through clumsy lips, “I’m afraid no one will see them. Ever again.”

“Christ,” said Crowley. He could only imagine. But there’d be time for boggling his mind over that later, he had bigger things to worry about right now. “Just - hang on, okay - I’ll clean you up a bit.”

He ran into the closest cubicle and indecorously wrenched the bog roll dispenser off the wall.

“Oh,” the angel wrinkled his nose in disgust, as Crowley wadded up a bunch of tissues in his fist to press to Aziraphale’s bleeding chest. “No. Please. God only _knows_ where that’s been! I’ll surely catch - catch something ghastly.”

“Ssshut up, its clean! Just, hold still.”

The wound wasn’t that large, or even particularly deep, but it was bleeding profusely. No matter how much he blotted up the blood, there was always more if it. It trickled in meandering lines down the angel’s bare chest, before he could catch it. And pressing on top directly just caused Aziraphale to let out a horrible mewl of pain. 

“ _Ffff_ , why is it _bleeding so much?!_ ”

There was a tentative knock at the door.

Crowley wrenched his attention from Aziraphale to scowl at it.

“ _Hello? Mr Fell? Mr Crowley?_ ” said a muffled voice, thick with worry. “ _Are you all right in there? Do you need me to call an ambulance?_ ”

“Fuck off!” the demon yelled.

“ _Crowley,_ ” scolded the angel, barely even able to keep his bloody eyes open, “that’s frightfully rude, they’re only... trying to...”

“Sh! And you can shut up and all - I’m trying to bloody _think!_ Hard enough as it is without humans interrupting every five seconds!”

A laboured breath in. “That’s no reason... the poor... poor...”

Red bloomed on the white tissues, with every beat of the angel’s struggling heart. Crowley bit down on his lip hard. He needed more tissues - bandages maybe - fuck if he knew - but he needed something. He made to stand up.

Aziraphale stopped him, with a stained hand catching the end of his sleeve.

The angel’s watery eyes looked into his, he was getting visibly weaker by the second. “Couldn’t... couldn’t stop...”

“Couldn’t stop what? The bleeding?”

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand and in both of his trembling ones, and placed it oh so carefully over the wound. “Cro...”

After all these years, they didn’t need human speech to communicate.

“ _Me?_ I can’t heal you! Angel, I’m - m’not -”

Aziraphale just held his gaze, pressing the demon’s hand flat over all the blood and sodden tissues. Crowley could feel the sluggish heart beat under his palm.

Fuck - why did he have to look at him like that? With those soft grey eyes full of something he didn’t want to put a name to. He was so damned _trusting_. Aziraphale looked at him as if he were capable of anything.

A tear slipped out and down the side of Crowley’s nose as he squeezed his eyes shut against that look of open certainty.“I can’t heal you, Aziraphale. I’m a _demon_ , remember?”

The angel’s eyes we’re starting to close again, Crowley shook him, desperate to keep him awake. It was no use. Aziraphale’s hands were loosening over his own, and his breaths were growing increasingly shallow.

Oh shitshitshit _shit_.

Well he had to do _something_ , Aziraphale was minutes away from kicking the bucket. And then who knew how long he’d be stuck up in Heaven with those twats?

Crowley took a breath in.

Think.

Aziraphale’s ethereal self wasn’t hurt, but his human body was losing blood fast and was in dire danger of discorporation. Something must have been on the knife - Crowley sniffed, nostrils flaring, something _bitter_ \- an anticoagulant of demonic making. Something to stop the blood from clotting, and also to prevent the angel from healing himself.

Any angelic magic would just bounce right off it.

Luckily for Aziraphale, there was nothing angelic about Crowley.

All right, okay - this was fine, fuck - he could do it - shit, maybe - he was definitely rusty when it came to healing things, probably wasn’t all that capable of it anymore. Ack. _Bugger it all to Hell_ , it was worth a bloody try.

He thought very hard about sealing up the wound. He thought, you know, _healingy_ kind of thoughts, like a self-help tape.

Quite predictably, nothing happened.

Sod it. _Unless_ -

He had an idea. A tremendously stupid idea, but needs must when your best friend was bleeding out on the floor of a restaurant toilet, eh?

Crowley grasped out for a tendril of his own self, a dark, and coiling entity. He ripped a piece off with a wince, and spun the energy carefully around his finger. It looked like a black ribbon, as he grappled it down into the wound.

Worse case scenario, they both exploded.

To his surprise, the cut started to close. The skin knitting back together in dark threads.

Oh, thank _Christ._ Ohh, look at that. He’d only bloody gone and actually done it! And they hadn’t even combusted.

Crowley patted Aziraphale’s cheek. “Tell me that worked! Tell me I’m a genius. Aziraphale? Oi. Wake up and tell me how clever I am.”

The angel was completely limp. Under his palm Crowley could feel that soft cheek starting to grow cold, speckles of sweat dampened the skin.

Aziraphale’s mouth was slightly open.

“I fixed you,” Crowley said desperately, “you’re all better, you’re _fine_. Come on, _come on._ ”

He reached over to the nearest sink and turned the tap on, the dried blood washed off his hands, gurgling down the plug hole. He gathered the next handful of clean water and flung it right into the angel’s face.

Aziraphale stirred, water droplets catching in his fluttering eyelashes.

Crowley sat back on his haunches and wiped at his mouth with a wet shaking hand. “Fuck. _Fuck_.”

That summed everything up nicely.

He pressed the tips of his fingers into his eyes, underneath the sunglasses. “You’ve really got to stop doing this shit to me angel... one of these days I’m just gonna keel over and it’ll all be your fault.”

“Mmm,” murmured the angel, sliding to the side.

Crowley was there, steadying him. “You with me?”

Aziraphale responded with a disgruntled groan, waving him off. Crowley had never heard anything so beautiful in his life.

It took a few more moments for Aziraphale to wake, Crowley was trying valiantly not to poke him too much. He settled for jabbing a finger into the angel’s trouser leg repeatedly.

“Crowley,” huffed Aziraphale, with no small amount of grumpiness, squinting at him, “please... stop that.”

“Wake up, then. Or do you fancy spending the rest of the day passed out on the men’s room floor?”

“Oh, not again, thank you,” mumbled the angel.

“Wha - _what?!_ ”

“Oh,” murmured Aziraphale, ignoring the demon’s spluttering, and touching at the dark scar on his chest with careful fingers, “I... I knew you’d... figure it out.”

Crowley frowned at him. “No you _didn’t_!”

“Well,” the angel amended, “I had faith that you would.”

The demon pointed a finger, warningly. “Don’t you _dare_ say that shit to me. You nearly _died.”  
_

“ _Discorporated_ ,” corrected Aziraphale, still looking a little weepy and out of sorts, “which I’ll admit, is a rather messy business... but not ultimately fatal. Still, it was very kind of you to heal me.” He lowered his gaze, blinking his damp eyelashes. “I... I wasn’t sure where else to go.”

_You come to me,_ thought Crowley furiously, _of course you come to me, you idiot. Don’t ever doubt that._

His mouth said the opposite. “Angel, I swear to Ssssatan, if you _ever do that to me again_ , I’ll -

“Yes, yes. Duly noted.” Aziraphale said, then he looked down at himself in despair. His hands fluttered. And there was blood under his manicured fingers, and well, everywhere else really.

He was a mess.

Crowley sighed. “All right, don’t gimme that look. Just let me...”

The demon waved a hand, and all the blood evaporated into wisps of smoke. Aziraphale’s clothes were now spotless, though a little rumpled.

The angel buttoned up his shirt with a small clearing of his throat. “Thank you,” he said, shyly.

Crowkey just grunted at him, because what was there to say really? He just offered up the newly immaculate jumper and coat.

They just sat there for a long moment. Aziraphale put his jumper back on, his white curls frizzing up from a mix of sweat and static. He looked pensive. Crowley tried not to think about anything at all, but his head was full of horrible visions of fingers pressing, and blood welling, and an angel with his eyes closed.

Aziraphale adjusted his bow tie a little self consciously. There were new lines of exhaustion in his face, especially around the eyes. Looked like the old angel could do with a nap. Crowley would take him home.

“Do you know,” said Aziraphale, breaking the silence. “I think I’m a little... peckish.”

Crowley eyebrows rose so high they nearly hit the ceiling. “You can’t be fucking serious. You want to eat _now?_ ”

“Well,” said the angel, reasonably. His fingers fiddled with his cuffs. “Why not? After all, we _do_ have a reservation. I was quite looking forward to it, and it would be a shame to waste it when we’re already here, hmm? Besides, eating may help to restore some lost blood volume.”

Crowley took his elbow, and helped him unsteadily to his feet.

“Come along, my dear,” said the angel lightly, though he was still as white as bleached paper, and there were purple shadows under his eyes. He looked like a bloody vampire. “You can pick out the wine.”

Crowley clutched Aziraphale’s arm tighter than he ought to, pressing the angel as close to his side as he dared. “You’re having the soup, angel. Soup of the sodding day, you hear me? _Liquids only._ And then we’re getting you home.”

“Oh, but _Crowley_ ,” pouted the angel, turning beseeching eyes on him, “they have a special that I’ve been -”

“Don’t. Don’t test me. It’s soup or nothing. And you can tell me the whole story while we’re at it. Every last detail. Got it?”

Aziraphale patted his arm, ever so gently. “All right,” he murmured, leaning his head on Crowley’s shoulder, “all right.”


	11. Crying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short sappy one :)
> 
> Seriously, the level of sap is nauseating. Sorry not sorry!

Aziraphale knew that Crowley loved him.

He was a being of love and when he felt it, it felt like the Heaven of old, as it had been before. It caused his hands to quiver, his heart to swell, his breaths to come out in little overjoyed puffs of air. It was beautiful. Joyful. Completely overstimulating.

And it always surprised him, just how fluid that love could be, how changing.

It could be a timid, flighty creature - the demon behind it grouchy and uncomfortable, foisting gifts onto Aziraphale quickly before sticking his hands in his pockets and glowering. As if it annoyed Crowley no end to be so terribly in love. As if he blamed the angel entirely.

Other times, it was calm and affectionate. It lapped gently at him on the strangest of occasions, when he had been doing nothing of note, nothing to warrant such devotion - when all he had been doing was sitting in an armchair reading a book. He’d look up to see Crowley staring at him, with that _look_ on his face. Aziraphale didn’t know how he’d ever earned a look like that, but he treasured it, tucked it into the pages of himself for safekeeping.

And sometimes, it was a boisterous, jumping thing. It leapt at him unexpectedly and threatened to bowl him over - nearly knocked him off his feet with the sheer _weight_ of it.

Often, it flared upon the demon’s entrance to the bookshop, and Aziraphale couldn’t help the smile that bloomed on his face in response.

“ _Crowley_ ,” he’d greet, hoping to express the way he felt in the demon’s name alone.

Aziraphale had experienced plenty of touches over the years - hand shakes, palms pressed onto his shoulder, little fist nudges to his upper arms, heavy claps on the back.

But there was rarely affection behind any of them. Especially not in Heaven.

But with Crowley, it was different. They’d shaken hands when agreeing to be godfathers of the Antichrist, they’d held hands on the bus, inside Crowley’s flat, and then again on the bench when swapping corporeal forms, and there’d been a million other small touches they’d shared over their time together. 

Behind each touch, _it was there,_ thrumming,as if it were concentrated in one area that couldn’t possibly hope to contain it. As if it were lying in wait to consume him.

All this Aziraphale knew. And so, when they first kissed, Aziraphale really should have expected his reaction.

He should have known what finally giving himself over to six thousand years of love would do to him.

They could barely keep the smiles off their faces as their lips pressed together, noses bumping clumsily, and then - _oh_ \- Aziraphale felt as if he had just swooped through the air - taken a dive down down down, the endorphins rushed in and everything went startlingly, blindingly bright, awareness fizzling out as if consumed by the sudden intensity of _this this this_.

He was gone. He was lost, and how lovely it was. How painfully perfect. The sensation of love was all he could focus on, it filled him to the brim and spilled over. 

There was a hand cupping his cheek. Then moving down to his shoulders. His lips felt bereft, cold.

“Aziraphale?”

Take him, take all of him. He was too much, he was too full. He couldn’t - he couldn’t -

“Angel? _Shit_. Aziraphale?”

He blinked. Oh, that was Crowley. Of course, dear Crowley. Somehow, the angel managed to focus enough to see the worried frown, the narrow lips pulled down. Those vibrant yellow eyes wide with concern.

“Hey, you all right?”

Aziraphale’s chin hit his chest, and a small shaky breath escaped him. He didn’t know. He didn’t know. Everything was - it was all so much. Too much.

“So sorry,” he whispered, blinking heavy eyes. “I think I’m... just a little... overwhelmed.”

“Overwhelmed? You’re barely even managing to stay upright!” To prove his point, Crowley let go of Aziraphale’s shoulders and the angel teetered alarmingly to the left. The demon yanked him back up with a snarl that spoke of fear rather than anger. “All right, sofa. Now.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, feeling as though he might just sit on the ground because his legs were very wobbly, “there’s really no need -”

“ _Now._ ”

Aziraphale sat. The demon took his hands in his slender fingers.

Slowly, the world bled into view again. Ink spilled from the demon’s hands and out, colouring the world anew. 

“Breathe in, that’s it, then out.”

Aziraphale huffed, shaking. “Yes, _thank you_ , I’m quite well versed in breathing Crowley, I’ve been doing it for six thousand years.”

“There you are,” said the demon, eyes full of relief. And - and there was that look again, the one Aziraphale was sure he didn’t deserve but still desperately wanted all the same. 

And Aziraphale couldn’t stop it. The small sob that escaped him. He snatched a hand out of the demon’s grasp and covered his mouth to muffle the sound. It was far too late for that though, Crowley had heard him, had seen him.

The demon reached out as if it were so very easy, and drew him into an embrace.

Oh, that was... that was _wonderful_.

The love was there, and it was so sure, so certain. It settled over him like a blanket, like the cooling mantle of night, just as Crowley’s hands settled on the flat of his back.

“S’all right, angel. Let it out.”

He did. He turned his face into that skinny chest, and wept.

Just being held like this, Aziraphale couldn’t fathom how he’d ever coped without it. How sorely he had needed this love that only gave and never expected anything in return, never demanded or assumed. It was so careful with him.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I haven’t the - the fo - foggiest idea why I’m so upset,” he lied, hiccuping into the demon’s shirt. 

Crowley didn’t seem to mind. He had one warm palm at the nape of the angel’s neck, the other holding him close. “Ssshh.”

Aziraphale sniffled.

The demon’s voice rumbled beneath Aziraphale’s cheek. “If I’d have known you’d react this way, I wouldn’t have kissed you. I’m sorry angel.”

Aziraphale pulled back, alarmed. Afraid he’d ruined everything. “No, no! It’s not _you,_ ” he insisted.

“‘Course it is. Terrible kisser me,” confided Crowley, with a wink, and Aziraphale registered the teasing tone with relief. “ _Waaay_ too much serpent tongue.” He flickered said tongue next to Aziraphale’s ear and it _tickled._

_“Crowley!”_

“And don’t even get me _started_ on the fangs! Absolute nightmare material. If I’d just been kissed by them, I’d probably cry too.”

The demon manifested two, frankly quite _ridiculous,_ teeth that protruded like a vampire’s. Then he went cross-eyed, yellow eyes bulging comically.

Aziraphale let out a startled laugh this time, a real one. Twin tears trailing down his cheeks. He smacked the demon lightly on the chest, “Oh, you silly old serpent!”

Something inside of him loosened then, a knot he hadn’t known about, unfurled.

Crowley took the angel’s face in his hands and wiped the tears away, so gently Aziraphale felt his eyes well up again. “That’s me,” the demon agreed.

There was so much care in that touch. Such a soft little thing, this love of theirs. He wondered if Crowley knew, if he realised...

A tear leaked rebelliously from the creased corner of Crowley’s shining eyes, falling in a line and catching on his lip.

_Of course, of course._

“ _Oh_ ,” Aziraphale said, and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY LOVE EACH OTHER OKAY
> 
> (Story on brief hiatus. Celebrating :) back soon!)


	12. Broken Bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again :) I’m so sorry for the brief hiatus, spent some much needed time with the person I love most in the world.
> 
> I’m very behind on the prompts, but rest assured, I’m still going to attempt them all!
> 
> Let’s just call this WHUMPTOBER/WHUMPVEMBER, shall we?
> 
> Prompt: Broken bones
> 
> tw: blood, wounds, broken bones

_Oop,_ Crowley remembered thinking just as his foot slipped and he found himself plummeting a hundred feet, _that’s me fucked, then. Goodbye cruel world! Hello cruel underworld and a mountain of sodding paperwork._

Then there was a lot of tumbling - darkness - his head was knocked about so much he thought he saw an angel reaching for him - all heavenly light and eyes shining through the black - and then a very sudden _stop_ which knocked the wind out of him.

After a few minutes, Crowley realised that he was, startlingly, still alive.

Huh. Well, that was a bit of luck. 

He was on top of something soft. Bit weird that. Bit weird to fall into a cave onto something resembling a marshmallow, wasn’t it? Who went about sticking marshmallows in caves? Didn’t make any sssssenseeeee.

Nghhhhh. Might’ve hit his head a bit.

What was he on about? Oh yeah. Marshmallows. Or, uh. Maybe it was a particularly large cave-dwelling mushroom. Or that place, wassat place in Wales? With all the trampolines. 

Crowley pressed his nose into the soft thing beneath him to stop the world from spinning, and - wait a tic - he _knew_ that scent.

Aziraphale.

He was lying on top of _Aziraphale_.

Their bodies were pressed together, every dip of his corporation pressed close into every swell of the angel’s. Ohhhh _Christ_. He was dreaming. Had to be. Aziraphale was so warm, and he was being held so firmly, there was no hesitance in that touch. The angel had seemingly taken the brunt of the fall on his open wings, arms wrapped protectively around Crowley, a wide palm cradling the back of his head.

Oh, _shit_. Oh no. What. What was he supposed to do?

Crowley had half a mind to pretend he was unconscious just so that he could stay wrapped in the shelter of these arms a little while longer.

But then he realised that the angel had yet to move. And that gave him a swift kick up the arse.

He poked Aziraphale in his soft chest with a long finger - not because he was worried, but because he was evil - which thankfully illicited a small groan.

_Phew_. All right. They were both not dead. That was good.

White feathers draped over them both in a cocoon.

Crowley spat one out of his mouth, there was downy fluff everywhere. Well, that’s what you got for manifesting your wings in a hurry, in a very tight space. Crowley was surprised it had worked at all.

He supposed he had been flailing quite a bit - majestically, mind you, not because he’d been terrified of his impending demise - which might have slowed him down. Aziraphale must have used his wings to propel himself forward - else Crowley would be an absolute goner right now. Nothing but a demonic splat on the rocks.

His arms were currently held by Aziraphale’s. So, he craned his neck, using his head to ease the wings up, like the fallen roof of a tent, so that he could to get a better look at his rescuer.

Aziraphale had his eyes closed, but he was starting to stir.

Crowley looked at him with something akin to awe. But was definitely leaning more towards incredulity than wonder. 

The angel had leapt after him, without a fucking care in the world - just - just _jumped_ _headfirst_ right down into a dark hole to save him. The _idiot_. What the Heaven had Aziraphale been thinking?! He could’ve been killed.

Crowley tried to pull back from the warm embrace to get a better look at the angel - just to be sure there wasn’t anything wrong, because although Aziraphale had used his wings to protect them both, it was just like the angel to care more about Crowley’s well-being than his own, because, as previously stated, he was an _idiot_ \- 

_Oof._ Ack. Nope. Couldn’t move. He was _trapped_. Jesus Christ, Aziraphale was _strong_. Crowley wriggled, and squirmed, but if anything that just made the angel grip him all the tighter.

“Asjiraflll,” the demon mumbled into the chest currently squashed into his face. He’d break his bloody nose at this rate, “njel. _Hlp_.”

A few bones in his back started to crack under the strain. He somehow managed to turn his head to the side, wedging it there forever more, cheek squished, one eye closed.

Well, if he was gonna peg it, this was the best possible way to go. Hugged to death by Aziraphale.

It was pretty fucking great, actually.

The only downside to asphyxiation/being crushed to death by the love of your life, was the fact that Aziraphale would probably be upset once he woke up and saw what became of Crowley.

Couldn’t have that.

“Oi!” Crowley managed to hiss, with whatever breath was left in his lungs. Which turned out to be just enough that he sounded a bit like a balloon that had recently had a pin stuck in it. In other words, it could be charitably called a squeak. He dug his chin into the pliable skin to lever his mouth out. “Angel! _Oi!_ ”

Aziraphale squinted open his grey eyes, almost luminescent in the gloom. Crowley could barely see them from his position atop the angel’s chest. “... Crowley?” the angel asked, confused. As if he hadn’t known who he’d wrapped his arms around, the _tart_.

Crowley had no air left with which to explain the predicament, but he was able to wave his hands about a bit and flop them uselessly against the angel’s chest. Aziraphale had the decency to look bashful.

“Oh, goodness, I’m so sorry!” The angel let him go. But not quickly, as if he were burned or embarrassed - Aziraphale let go gently, as if he were letting a startled animal go free, a little minnow back into the lake from the safety of his cupped hands. A little breathy laugh. “Do forgive me. Don’t... don’t know my own strength, it seems.”

Crowley almost regretted saying anything. He scrabbled away from the embrace, but not very far - just until he was lying next to the angel, instead of on top of him. A very elegant, composed, _flop_ to the side. He was still partially atop a monumentally soft, outrageously fluffy wing. And he couldn’t bring himself to move off it.

Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind. If anything the wing shifted to accommodate him, curled over carefully.

“That your plan, was it?” the demon groused, between heaving gasps of air that he didn’t need. “Catch me and then try and squeeze me to a bloody pulp?”

Aziraphale huffed out a breath, eyes twinkling with relief. “Oh, you ungrateful, wretched thing. Of course not. Still... I’m very sorry if I hurt you, that wasn’t my intention. Ah, _guardian instincts_... you understand.”

Crowley scoffed. “I really, really don’t. But you didn’t hurt me. Can’t. I’m immune to your heavenly torture attempts.”

“Well then, dear boy,” said the angel smoothly, “what on Earth are you complaining about?”

Crowley scowled. Then he looked over the angel. Because while Aziraphale seemed calm, there was an odd tremor to his voice. It was very suspicious. Crowley didn’t like it.

He soon found out the reason.

“Oh,” he croaked out, “ _shit_.”

Aziraphale frowned. “What is it? Crowley? Whatever’s the matter? You’ve gone awfully pale.” The angel made to peer to down to where Crowley was looking. 

Crowley took him by the chin and turned his face away. “No no, don’t look at it!”

“Why?” Aziraphale asked, the beginnings of worry crinkling at his eyes, “Oh goodness me, tell me you’re not _hurt?_ I tried to cushion the fall as best I could, but you are all arms and legs, my dear - it was awfully difficult to -”

“Not _me_ ,” Crowley managed to squeak. “ _You_.”

The angel had the audacity to look reassured at that. He settled back against the ground, as if completely unconcerned. “Oh.”

“Oh? _Oh?_ Don’t give me oh! Holy Christ! Your leg’s _mangled_ \- it’s -”

“Oh _dear_ ,” amended Aziraphale. “Is it bad?”

Crowley swallowed, looking at the broken leg - eurgh, it _really_ shouldn’t be at that angle - and worse still there was a growing stain of blood on the angel’s trousers. Had the bone gone through the skin? He poked it gingerly and it squelched. Yep, oh yep. Ohh, that was gross. He might be sick, actually. His stomach started to flip flop around like a dying fish.

“It’s bad,” he wheezed.

_Fuck_.

Aziraphale took this infuriatingly calmly. “Oh my. Well, what a pickle,” he said.

Crowley didn’t want to look at it anymore, but he was struck with a morbid fascination and couldn’t seem to prise his gaze away. More worryingly though, was the fact that the angel was just lying there like a bloody lemon, making no attempt to do anything about it. His brow furrowed in concern. “Can’t you heal it?”

“I’m... not sure,” Aziraphale shifted and his face contorted in pain, white teeth clenched and eyes squeezed shut.

“Don’t _move_ , you idiot!”

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed, as all the blood drained from his face, “yes you’re - you’re quite right. Sound advice. Whoopsiedaisy.”

“Jesus Christ, just stay still.”

As much as Crowley hated seeing the angel in any discomfort, he didn’t want to chance fixing the break himself. Awfully tricky business, healing. Especially for a demon. Aziraphale’s leg was more likely to turn into a pumpkin or something if he tried anything.

“Come on,” he cajoled, “do yourself a quick miracle. Be up and about in no time.”

The angel _hesitated_.

Crowley tried to hold the angel’s gaze to figure out why he was stalling, but Aziraphale was looking everywhere but him. “Aziraphale?”

“I really shouldn’t,” confessed the angel, in a pained whisper. “I’ll get _reprimanded._ I’ve already gone over the recommended miracle quota for this month. Gabriel will be terribly miffed with me.”

Crowley couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Wha - _sod_ Gabriel! Angel, you can’t just hobble around on a broken leg!”

“Of course I can,” Aziraphale reasoned, monumentally stupidly. “The humans do it all the time. Something called a _cast_ , I believe. Plaster of... of paris, gypsum... they’re very creative creatures...”

“Aziraphale. It’s _bleeding!_ ”

“Is it?” the angel glanced down and then immediately back up, lip trembling, “oh yes. So it is.”

This was absolutely fucking ridiculous. “You have to heal it, angel. You could _discorporate_. And that’d be a whole lot worse than performing one tiny miracle, wouldn’t it? All that paperwork. And they might not let you back down here for ages. You’re not thinking clearly. You’re in pain. Feel much better once you heal yourself, all right?”

Aziraphale looked torn. He worried his hand into his feathers and _pulled_. “I’ll get into ever so much trouble,” he murmured, and followed it up with a pout.

“For _fucksssssake_.”

The angel looked at him imploringly. He looked shockingly tired in the gloom of the cave. Deep shadows hiding in the creases of his face.

“Don’t be so dramatic, dear. There are always alternative solutions, if one has the mental agility to seek them out.”

Crowley groaned, “Oh, not this _bollocks_ again -”

“Let’s see now,” Aziraphale said, breathing unsteadily, “there must be another way... obviously you... you aren’t able to heal me, or at least, I shan’t like to take a chance upon the outcome, but... oh, I _know_. Could you perhaps bandage the ah, the bit that’s broken through the skin? Yes, yes, that’ll do nicely. And then, if you might splint it for me? I’m sure I’ll... I’ll manage perfectly well after that.”

Crowley flapped his hands around, indicating the sheer idiocy of such a request.“I’m not - _splint_ it? You want me to _splint_ a great big fucking bone sticking out of you?!” 

“Um,” said Aziraphale, and neglected to say anything else.

“Look. Just _heal_ the bloody thing and be done with it, will you? If you don’t, we’ll be both be stuck down here for the foreseeable forever. Because I’m not leaving you. And you can’t walk. You’re dooming us both to a life in this sstupid ssssodding cave!”

Aziraphale still looked conflicted. Crowley tried not to melt under the power of those damp grey eyes. He held firm. Eventually, the angel conceded with a small, miserable nod.

“Right,” said Crowley, shakily. “Good. Go on then.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, but there was no _zzzap_ of ethereal magic. “Hmm,” the angel said, tentatively, “ah... it’s much harder than I had anticipated. Perhaps, if you... if you could just - _pop_ the bone back in, then it would make it much easier to fuse the two halves back together.”

“You want me,” said Crowley, “to _pop it back in._ ”

“Yes. If it’s not too much bother.”

Nothing was too much of a fucking bother. That was the problem. Crowley would give him his life if he asked for it. And apparently he was even willing to poke ineptly at a broken bone. Fssssssskkkkk. Jesus Christ. The things the angel put him through.

“Ick. _Fine_. I’ll do it.”

“Oh, you will?”

“Least I can do, seeing as you gallantly stopped me from getting my head dashed against all these bloody boulders.”

“Think nothing of it, my dear fellow. After all, you would... you would do the same for me.”

Crowley put a hand over the angel’s mouth to shut him up before Hell could hear. Because it was probably more likely there was someone listening in a great big dark hole in the ground. Demons loved this sort of nightmarish oubliette. Only one way in and no way out.

“Shut up,” he lied, “no I wouldn’t.”

Crowley very carefully, very gingerly, placed his hands on the angel’s leg. Barely touching the stained fabric. It was still bleeding. It looked absolutely horrific, if he were honest. Crowley blinked a few tears out of his eyes and swallowed convulsively.

“Ah,” panted Aziraphale, clearly in agony, but doing his best to keep quiet, “ah, ah.”

Crowley felt each pained exhalation as if it were a dagger through his own heart. “Ssssorry,” he hissed out.

“No, no, it’s fine,” insisted Aziraphale, even as a tear slid damningly down his cheek. His wings were shivering minutely in distress, feathers rustling. “Please, carry on. You won’t hurt me. I promise.”

Crowley attempted a small miracle, just to shift the bone a little. Gently. See what he was working with.

“Ah ahhhhh _-_ _ah!_ ” exclaimed the angel, and then went startlingly quiet.

Crowley snapped his eyes up in alarm and saw Aziraphale biting onto his own lip so hard that it drew blood. “Aziraphale,” he murmured, devastated that he’d been the cause of such anguish.

The angel’s eyes were wild. The whites showing all around his round grey irises. “Sorry,” he gasped, wetly, “so sorry. It’s -”

“Shhhh. S’okay, angel. Be all right.”

Well, only one thing for it. 

Crowley clicked his fingers and the bone snapped back into place, quickly and efficiently - because if he stopped to think about how much it was going to hurt the angel for a second longer, he wouldn’t have been able to go through with it.

Aziraphale muffled a yell into the soft flesh of his inner elbow, tears leaking from his eyes.

“Hey, you’re all right. You’re all right,” Crowley soothed, feeling like a monster.

The angel’s eyes drooped a bit, before flickering back open with effort. His arm dropped to the side.

“Thank - thank you,” he rasped out, shakily, head wobbling on his neck, “ _thank you._ ”

Crowley grasped the angel’s hand in his. Aziraphale clutched at his fingers, tightly, impossibly gratefully, as if it were a lifeline.

“ _Don’t,”_ said Crowley, pleadingly, “Just heal the bloody thing already, would you? Do that for me, eh? Looking at it’s making me feel sick.”

The angel closed his eyes. Face pallid. Cheek twitching. There was the _zing_ of a miracle, a weird cracking, grating sound that Crowley never wanted to hear again, ever. But would. When he tried to fall asleep that night.  


Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s fingers, slumping slightly.

Crowley looked down at the leg - not a blemish on it. Trousers freshly pressed, too, by the looks of it. No blood. No bone. As if it had never happened. Of course, Crowley’s thumping heartbeat and bitten tongue were evidence that it bloody well _had_.

Aziraphale sat up, one hand bracing him on the ground, and gave his knee a wiggle. “Ah, there we go,” he said, as if he’d just sorted a minor mishap. As if he’d delicately positioned a plaster over a paper cut, or pressed a kiss to a small bruise. “All better!”

Crowley watched the angel carefully for any wince or grimace. Aziraphale looked drained, but not as deathly pale as he had before. He was just exhausted. And Crowley could deal with that - had dealt with a tired angel for centuries, knew just the cure. A little recuperation. And a shit tonne of expensive booze.

Aziraphale smiled gently at him, as if he knew what went on in the old serpent’s head. Probably did, the bastard. Those beautiful wings were folded back out of existence, and the cave grew darker without their soft ethereal glow. 

Then the angel looked up at the small opening above, the light reflecting in his watery eyes. His face was blotched with pink. “Now,” he started, with a finger pressed to his plump chin, “I don’t suppose you have any bright ideas on how to get out of this cave?”

_Ah,_ thought Crowley, _bollocks_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this little one :) thanks for sticking with me.


	13. Falling (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’M STILL ALIVE :)
> 
> This one’s a two parter. It got rather out of hand.
> 
> Alternative prompt: Falling (Part One of Two)

_We’d dearly love for you both to visit our new home!_ Aziraphale had said on the phone. _And as luck would have it, we’re due to be experiencing exceptionally fair weather on Saturday - ooh, I know! We can drive up to the cliffs, have a lovely scenic stroll, and then a quiet little picnic overlooking the sea. What do you say?  
_

Anathema felt a little smile curl at her lips. _Sure, sounds great. If Newt’s car can manage the trip without breaking down, that is.  
_

_Oh, don’t you worry about that my dear. I’m_ positive _that you’ll arrive promptly and in good health. Call it... divine intuition._

She snorted. _Then it’s a date. Need me to bring anything?_

_Good gracious, no,_ protested the angel, vehemently. _Only yourselves!_

Anathema should have listened to her gut. She thought it had been indigestion from Newt’s woeful attempt at lasagne that night, but with the benefit of hindsight realised it had actually been her natural instincts attempting to _warn_ her.

She’d only brought a small housewarming present (a few pots of useful medicinal herbs, that Crowley had immediately sneered at and snatched out of her hands. ‘I think he likes them!’ Aziraphale had insisted, brightly, while the demon stalked off to his greenhouse, hissing vile things under his breath).

She should have brought her whole fucking occult toolbox.

They’d been sitting on a blanket by the cliffs in the South Downs. It was a blustery sort of day, and they’d weighted the blanket down at the edges with bottles of homemade ginger beer to stop it from taking off.

Aziraphale had handed her a dainty china plate with tiny bumblebees all around the edge of it, and insisted she try his new baking creations because he’d really got the hang of the treacle tart this time.

Crowley had sat there drinking from a bottle labelled with a skull and crossbones - which on closer inspection, appeared to smell like Irish cream. The demon was doing his best to look actively bored, but he kept topping off the angel’s glass and trying not to smile besottedly at him as Aziraphale hummed appreciatively around a forkful of tart.

Newt had only just started to decompress after tackling a bunch of bendy country roads in his reliant robin. Something which probably should be made illegal. They definitely would have ended up in a ditch if not for a good helping of angelic intervention.

Aziraphale had just unwrapped the cling film from a ludicrous amount of coronation chicken sandwiches, when -

There were three strikes of impossible lightning that speared down from the sky with an almighty crack.

Anathema sat up immediately, plate forgotten, the scent of ozone and magic prickled at her nostrils.

Forget the toolbox, she should have packed her entire arsenal into the boot of Newt’s car.

Her hosts were equally on edge - Crowley scrambling to his feet with a mouthful of swears, and Aziraphale standing and reaching out to clutch desperately at the demon’s hand.

The only one who wasn’t aware that something awful was about to happen was Newt, who was half way through a custard slice and enjoying it immensely. Anathema elbowed him in the side.

“Jesus Christ,” Crowley was grumbling, “can’t they leave us alone for a few sodding months?”

Three people - or people-shaped beings - strolled over the grass towards them, their pristine suits buffeted by the wind.

Anathema recognise one of them from the airbase - the archangel Gabriel.

She glanced to the side. Aziraphale looked pale, he was swallowing, and clenching his unoccupied fist at his side.

“Get behind us,” he said to Newt, then turned his gaze on Anathema. His eyes were full of determination, a brewing storm cloud. “Quickly now.”

Anathema was not a coward, but she was clever. She knew that if these were indeed angels, they might not see her presence as anything but an inconvenience, meaning she’d either be overlooked completely, or disposed of immediately. Better do as Aziraphale said.

Anathema nodded, moving to take Newt’s hand and run - but she wasn’t fast enough.

In less than a blink, the portly angel had teleported across the space.

She reeled backwards in alarm.

The angel grabbed her arm, but Anathema was quick to snatch up the serrated bread knife from the picnic rug that Aziraphale had been using to saw slices off a loaf of tiger bread. She gripped it threateningly. “ _Get your hands off me,_ ” she growled.

Her eyes flitted back and forth, trying to gauge what her next move should be - another angel with dark skin smattered with gold, had her fist clenched around Newt’s shirt front, lifting him off the ground until his legs dangled.

“What is the meaning of this? Unhand them at _once!_ ” that was Aziraphale.

Anathema squared her jaw, and moved the knife closer to the angel holding her. 

She couldn’t kill him, obviously, but she knew that these bodies of theirs were like... weird skin suits that harboured an ethereal being within. She could harm the body enough to make a break for it, or else just threaten him with harm in the hopes that he was an idiot.

The angel tilted his head, sneering, and the blade in her hand turned to salt and whisped away on the breeze, claimed by the sea.

“ _Shit_ ,” Anathema swore under her breath. She tried to tug herself away, but found that she could no longer move - it was as if she was frozen solid. _Magic_. 

“Hey. It’s great to see you again, Aziraphale!” said the angel in the grey suit - _Gabriel_ , clasping his hands together. 

Aziraphale looked angry. He’d let go of Crowley’s hand, probably because he was afraid he might crush it. “Gabriel,” he acknowledged coldly, “Leave the humans alone, they’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Yeah, fuck off!” added the demon.

Aziraphale gave him a look that clearly articulated _you’re_ _not helping, dear._ Then the angel locked eyes with Anathema, and his expression flip-flopped between worry and a fierce sort of protectiveness.   
  


“Why don’t you come closer, Gabe?” spat the demon, “Think I can muster up a bit of hellfire that’ll wipe that smirk right off your face!”

“Charming. I can see why Aziraphale cherishes your company. I wouldn’t try anything if I were you, you’d do well to keep your threats to yourself, demon. We do seem to have the upper hand here. I mean, unless you’re willing to endanger the humans’ lives?”

Crowley was hissing. “Using them to hide behind, eh? Pffft, that’s low. I mean that’s really, _really_ low. Even for you lot. Should be ashamed of yourselves.”

“You’re the ones who have put them in harm’s way, by association,” said Gabriel, with a condescending raise of his eyebrows. “I really don’t understand why you’d want to _interact_ with them, Aziraphale. They’re _humans_.” Gabriel eyed the assembled picnic foods with open disgust, “Well, I suppose someone with your limited intelligence might find these base creatures interesting, hmm? More... on your level.”

Anathema was busy thinking about some really _nasty_ spells befitting of such an asshole.

Crowley bared his fangs. “I’m gonna fucking -”

Aziraphale put a hand on his arm. “Look, whatever it is that you want, whatever you’re here for, we’re willing to talk about it reasonably.”

“We fucking aren’t!”

“Crowley, _please._ There’s no need for this ridiculous stand off.”

Gabriel leaned backwards on his heels. Somehow the wind that was slapping at Anathema’s face wasn’t affecting him at all. “All right. We’ve come to take you back to Heaven, Aziraphale. Come with us, and we won’t hurt the humans.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding,” yelled Crowley, tendons sticking out of his neck and eyes fully yellow, “he’s not going _anywhere_ with you!”

Gabriel sighed in mock disappointment. He picked some nonexistent lint from his lapel, and straightened his cuffs.

“I thought you might say that. What a _shame_. I didn’t want to have to resort to this, but...” he inclined his head to the side, indicating the chalky cliffs. His eyes were a cold, steely purple. “Sandalphon. Uriel. Dispose of the humans.”

“Wha - _No!_ ”

Anathema struggled but his grasp was like iron, and no amount of kicking the angel was doing anything. He wrenched her around until he was behind her, and then he grinned next to her ear - a horrible glinting golden grin - and the next thing she knew she was so horribly, dangerously close to the edge of the cliff, her boots were sliding over grass and rocks - a wide expanse of blue and white and grey - and then -

She was falling.

Long hair whipping at her face, dress billowing out behind her, rippling like a flag caught in the wind and tangling around her legs. Her brain worked a mile a minute, and she’d spread her limbs out, hoping to slow her descent even as the sea rushed up like an enormous slab of blue to meet her.

And suddenly she was caught, in strong careful arms that smelt of old pages and milk chocolate.

Aziraphale.

She immediately put her arms around his neck and clung tightly.

“I’ve got you, my dear.”

“Holy _fuck!_ ” she shouted.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, “my sentiments exactly. Are you all right?”

She settled her breath, and nodded. Clutching all the tighter. “Thanks for the save,” she told him, more than a little shakily. But hey, you couldn’t exactly blame her, she had been plummeting to her demise just a few seconds prior.

“Oh, it was nothing,” said Aziraphale jovially, as though he’d just popped over with a batch of fairy cakes, “it feels good to give the old wings a stretch.”

And they were beautiful wings too, from her unique vantage point she could see the pristine white feathers up close, soft and fluffy in places, and sharp and glimmering in others. Looking away left bright after images on her retinas, like staring too long at a light bulb. She wondered, if she touched them, whether her fingers would be scorched down to the bone.

And then she saw him, darting like an eagle after its prey.

“Aziraphale,” she gasped, “The angel! He’s behind you! Watch out!”

The portly angel’s wings were darker than Aziraphale’s, tipped with brown. Something in his hand flashed as it caught the light. 

Aziraphale glanced back quickly, “Dear me,” he muttered and then dipped them both into the swell of the wind, causing Anathema’s stomach to drop as if she were on a rollercoaster.

It didn’t do any good, the angel was still following them. The wind was like a grappling being, pulling and wrenching at them as they flew - the other angel clearly had the advantage right now. Anathema spat some hair out of her mouth. “What’s your plan?” she yelled, “Please tell me you have a plan!”

“Of course, yes. Not to worry, I’ll have you safely on the ground in a jiffy,” said Aziraphale, kindly. 

Anathema let out an incredulous laugh, “It’s not _me_ I’m worried about - he’s got a knife, or something!” she shouted over the roar of the wind, “I think he’s trying to kill you!”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, his wings flapping once to lower them a little before catching the breeze and opening taut like a kite, “yes,” he agreed, “most likely.”

Aziraphale’s hands were firm around her waist, as he quickly tucked his wings in, to swoop downwards in an elegant curve, avoiding the other angel by a metre or so. His blue-grey eyes were determined, narrowed a little in concentration, and his mouth set in a soft line that no doubt hid a multitude of worry. 

Anathema grasped at him tightly, because that was the look of someone about to do something _stupid_.

“It might be for the best,” explained Aziraphale, quickly, “for us to part ways here - yes, off you go then.”

Anathema, of course, protested. “What?! No! We’re a hundred feet up!”

“I promise you’ll land safely,” he told her, earnestly. And though she believed him, she wasn’t about to leave him. Maybe she could throw something at the other angel, veer him off course. What she wouldn’t do for a good heavy brick right about now.

And then the other angel was suddenly careening through the air towards them, and Anathema felt herself being pushed, suddenly and deliberately, away. She didn’t let go, hadn’t stopped clutching Aziraphale’s coat, but it hadn’t mattered.

She was flung outwards for the second time that day.

Aziraphale was above her, all white feathers and a promise in those darkening grey eyes. He turned away, and his wings flared with holy white light, and that was the last thing she could make out.

She spiralled, and up was down and down was sideways and her hair was slapping her in the face, and arms pinwheeling, and she could have sworn the sea had been below her, but now there was an expanse of brownish white, and she hit something impossibly soft and bounced.

The momentum rolled her off whatever it had been and onto the coarse sand of the beach and a few painful spikes of battered grass.

“Oof!” She gasped out.

Then immediately looked upwards, to see the reckless angel -

and -

and Aziraphale was falling.

He was farther away than was logical. He must have used magic to spirit her away. His dazzling white wings had disappeared somewhere.

The angel was perpendicular to the sea below, white head angled downwards, body straight as an arrow, and legs gracefully pointed upwards, tapering into brown brogues. He fell as bright and heavenly as a shooting star, glowing like a streaking comet.

She put her hands to her mouth in shock and then swore as loudly and colourfully as she ever had in her life.

Anathema grabbed at her skirts, bundling them up until she had an armful and ran into the sea, and god it was freezing! Absolutely freezing! British beaches and their icy cold waters, what she wouldn’t do to be back in California right now. She waded in up to her waist before there was the sound of something dropping behind her on the beach.

She lurched around.

It was Crowley and Newt. She gave them a quick once over, flicking her dark eyes up and down. Newt had stumbled slightly on landing, but although he looked pale and his hair windswept, he looked to be otherwise all right.

He ran over to her immediately, waves threatening to topple him over in his haste. “You all right?” he called out.

The demon raised an eyebrow at her, his dark wings folding behind him. “What the hell are you doing? And what’s with that massive mattress?” He poked a thumb up the beach where an impossibly large mattress lay, it must have been where she’d landed. He suddenly looked serious, “ _Where’s Aziraphale?_ ”

“He fell in the water!” she explained quickly.

The demon’s spine snapped straight and he was suddenly all ears. Not literally, but being a demon, she wouldn’t put it past him as being something he was capable of.“What? Where?”

“About fifty yards out,” she pointed to where she’d last seen the angel.

And when she looked back, Crowley had gone.

........

At the witch’s hurried explanation, Crowley felt panic like he had never felt before.

He miracled an updraft and took to the sky without a word. His yellow eyes were wide, as he darted over the sea, looking for any sign of life.

Visions of a drowned angel - pale faced and sinking, with his white hair buoyed by the ocean currents as he drifted down into the darkening gradients of the deep, his eyes closed and fingers outstretched above him - were on the forefront of Crowley’s mind - and well, he was panicking, wasn’t he, he was absolutely shitting himself.

Then, suddenly, there was a familiar manicured hand grasping at the surface of the sea, as if it were the edge of a pool. A sodden beige elbow erupted next, arm leaning on the crest of a wave, and the angel - there he was, thank _Someone_ \- bodily hauled himself up to kneel, tremblingly on top of the sea as if it were a platform of sluicing glass and not water at all.

_Bloody angels_ , thought Crowley in exasperated, painfully relieved, fondness. They were able to walk on water, of course. Thank fuck it was an optional power, or Aziraphale would have smacked into the sea like falling face first onto hard concrete.

“Oi! You all right down there?” he called out, hovering in what he hoped was a cool and collected manner and not half as desperate looking as he felt.

He thought he more resembled a starving seagull begging for a chip, than a dashing heroic rescuer, but oh well, he could forgo his usual swagger if it meant that Aziraphale was safe.

“Need a lift, angel?”

“Oh, _Crowley_.” And there it was, that beaming, grateful smile. Crowley could live off its light alone for years. “Yes, thank you, that would be very helpful,” the angel coughed a little as he got to his feet, tan brogues dimpling the surface of the water, but not sinking into it. The wide palm of his hand settled over his soaked waistcoat with dismay. “I seem to have swallowed a great deal of sea water, and I can’t say that it’s particularly agreeing with me.”

“Know just the cure for that.”

“Oh?”

“Yep. It’s called alcohol. You, me, couple of bottles of whisky. Do you a world of good. Wash the sea right out of you.”

“That sounds delightful,” agreed Aziraphale, and he offered up his hand as if he were a lady waiting for it to be kissed.

Crowley resisted the urge, barely.

“Upsadaisy, angel,” he said, grabbing Aziraphale’s hand. He hoisted him up, with the help of a small miracle, and the angel’s arms settled around his neck, wetly.

Crowley tried up keep his breathing steady as his own arms wrapped protectively around the angel’s damp middle. With the miracle in place, it wasn’t strictly necessary, Aziraphale would hardly fall, but it made him feel better. And it was an excuse to touch.

Was this a hug?

He was counting it as a hug. That made seventeen, so far. He was a very lucky demon.

It took all his willpower not to dig his nose into the soft skin under Aziraphale’s chin, that little fleshy part that looked so inviting and soft and was now, tantalisingly, only inches away from his flickering tongue.

He’d probably just taste like sea water though. Not worth the spluttered questions, and possible halfhearted slap.

Crowley deposited them back on the beach where a bedraggled witch and her boyfriend were grinning at them, the former waving one arm to better be seen from the sky.

Crowley walked forward, and with a hasty snap of his fingers the witch was dry, her skirts no longer sodden and heavy with water. Newt looked all right, if a bit like he’d lost a fight with a hairdryer. They were clutching hands.

Crowley looked at the angel then, with a confused quirk of his eyebrows.

He had stayed where Crowley had dropped him. The waves lapping at his shoes. Normally, Aziraphale would be the one tending to the humans’ needs, but he was just standing there, dripping, and shaking from the cold, his eyes a pale grey as they looked up into the sky, bleached of colour.

He hadn’t miracled himself dry yet and was completely soaked through. His bow tie was drooping, shirt almost transparent and socks audibly squelching in his shoes. Sea water was dripping from his hair in rivulets down his face, and the slope of his neck.

Crowley snapped again and a warm draft of air filtered up to tousle those white angelic curls and dry clean his three piece suit.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, patting at himself delightedly, and smiling at Crowley as if he’d given him the world, “thank you, my dear.”

Crowley wasn’t about to be distracted by that disarmingly bright smile. He was instantly concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re hurt?” Crowley interrogated, “Injured? Got sea water up your ethereal nose? What is it.”

“I’m quite all right, Crowley. There’s no need to make a fuss.”

“Oh yeah? Take a nosedive into the sea for fun did you?”

“... I was just a little distracted.”

Crowley turned to glare at the witch, hoping for answers.

“I don’t know what happened after I fell - but, that other angel was following us,” input Anathema, with concern. She looked apologetically at Aziraphale, “he had a knife.”  
  


  
Oh, Christ. That didn’t sound good.

After he’d caught Newt, Crowley had thought the other angels had all buggered off pretty sharpish. Which was highly suspicious behaviour. They’d obviously had ulterior motives - they’d done _something_ \- Aziraphale’s corporation was uninjured, so that only left his wings as possible cause for concern.

“What _happened?_ ”

Aziraphale’s eyes darted away. “Sandalphon wouldn’t listen to reason. I fought him, and he - he left. Just a bit of fisticuffs, that’s all.”

He was lying.

“Right,” grumbled the demon, stalking up to the angel with purpose, and keeping his voice low, “get them out then, let’s see the damage.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your _wings_ , angel.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, backing away slightly with wide eyes, “no, no. There’s no need for that!”

Crowley quietened his voice, so as not to be overheard. “You're hurt.”

Aziraphale’s gaze flickered over to the humans and back up to Crowley’s eyes. “I’m afraid so,” he admitted, “but please don’t worry yourself. I’m quite all right for the moment, I promise. Let’s just get home first. I want to get _home_. Please.”

“How bad is it?”

Aziraphale just smiled, warmly. The corners of his eyes crinkled now, too, and his cheeks plumped, and that dimple appeared. The one on his chin.

Crowley was well-versed on the angel’s facial expressions. He could write the sodding manual, actually. The demon considered Aziraphale for a short moment and then made a face. “Oh fuck me, it’s bad then.”

Aziraphale’s smile froze in place. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t say _anything!_ ”

“Precisely. I think it’s best for all involved if I keep them tucked away in the celestial plane at this moment in time,” reasoned Aziraphale, the skin under his eyes wrinkling upwards beseechingly, and Christ, how was Crowley supposed to deny him anything when he looked like that, it was completely unfair, “we can ah, deal with them later, once we return Home.”

Crowley set his mouth into a grimace, totally unconvinced.“Angel -”

Aziraphale shook his head, stubbornly. “Once we’re back at the cottage, darling.”

Oh, he’d brought out the _darling_. That bastard. Fine. If that was the way the angel wanted it, then that’s what they’d bloody do. See if Crowley cared.

Of course the fact that Crowley did care, _immensely_ , made the whole thing even more annoying.

The demon indicated the Bentley with a jerk of his chin, and set off towards it, stomping along the sand with purpose. The sooner they got in the car, the sooner they got home, and the sooner the angel could get his head out of his arse and let Crowley help him.

He nearly made it all the way there.

“Aziraphale!”

Crowley spun around, with an _I told you so_ on his forked tongue, but he immediately swallowed it in fear.

The angel swayed, fell.

One knee in the sand.

Anathema had attempted to take his elbow, to help him stand. Under her care, he somehow managed to wobble upright, his smile shrinking and then flaring back to life like a sputtering lightbulb.

And then he fell again, both knees this time, hands too, sending the sand scattering. His back was shaking.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” muttered Crowley under his breath, as he legged it across the sand dunes back to the silly old fool. He reached his side, hauling him upwards as gently as he could. “Come on angel. Up we go, that’s it. Bentley, now.”

They practically carried him to the car.

“Wings out,” grunted Crowley as they sat him down in the back seat.

The angel’s head flopped back against the head rest and he took several unsteady lungful of air as if they might be his last. “No, I - I can’t.”

“Aziraphale, I wasn’t asking. The Bentley can take it,” Crowley patted the roof worriedly, “can’t you, old girl?”

The Bentley responded by widening the backseat, completely impossibly.

“Let me _see_ , angel. Can’t help if I can’t see.”

Aziraphale was positively grey now, and his breath was coming out in little gasps. “I didn’t want to - to scare you. I’m sorry, Crowley.”

Oh, fuck, oh _fuck -_ he was fucking _terrified_ now.

Aziraphale looked apologetic, face pinched miserably. “I won’t... be able... to put them back...”

Crowley squeezed his arm. “S’all right, it’s okay, we’ll - we’ll deal with that later. Get you fixed up first,” he somehow managed to say through the chokehold of dread that had wrapped around his throat.

Aziraphale closed his eyes. He leant forward, and put his hands on his knees.

There was a shiver of displaced reality. The wings erupted from his back like white water from a geyser, caught in a burst of sunlight. They looked too enormous to contemplate, much too fucking gigantic for the backseat of the car - but then they fell into graceful arches of glowing white feathers, layered with a pearlescent sheen to rival the inside of an oyster shell.

Crowley inspected the wings with his heart pounding loudly in his ears.

Golden blood stained and matted the feathers at the junction where the left wing met the skin of his back.

It flowed without stopping, pulsing like a slow heartbeat.

Crowley sucked in a horrified breath. 

Oh, no. Oh, _Aziraphale_.

“I can’t... I can’t seem to get it to stop,” explained the angel, gently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no!
> 
> Will Aziraphale peg it in the backseat of the Bentley? 
> 
> Will our angel be unreasonably miffed when he finds out that Crowley left the picnic basket behind, along with his prized bumble bee decorated tea set? 
> 
> Will I ever get around to posting on a regular schedule? (no.)
> 
> Find out in the next exciting instalment! :)


End file.
